November 12, 2007

Called around and found a marina with a mechanic which was good news. The bad news was it was on the Cape Fear River towards Wilmington, about six miles off of the beaten path of the ICW. He wouldn’t be available until Monday. The batteries had plenty of juice left to run the engine, and we would be able to recharge them by plugging into shore power at the marina. So we sailed a good part of the way south down Masonboro Sound into Myrtle Sound with a strong gusty wind behind and to the west, and we would heel and straighten like a sailing dinghy on a lake coping with an irregular shore line, then headed north, head into the cold wind up the Cape Fear River.

You entered the marina through a twenty foot wide channel cut into the river bank that led to what appeared to be a man-made lagoon bordering an industrial park. Nobody was about except an ancient attendant at the fuel dock that in a movie would be cast as “pops,” and a young couple living aboard a Bombay Express, an interesting boat I had never heard of. We spent a rather gloomy and cold Saturday night.

Awakened Sunday refreshed with enough energy to attempt diagnosis. Determined that in fact the alternator was functioning, and the problem must lie within the voltage regulator that controls the flow of juice to the batteries. A two-amp fuse is in the power supply to the regulator. Took it out and put it back in, and it begin to work properly. Probably nothing more than a tiny bit of corrosion, but not sure about that. I’ll make a call to Joe in Maine, the great guy and specialist in boat electronics generally and on Journey specifically, review the case with him, and see what diagnosis he might offer. We were out of there by noon and made 20 miles going with a two knot current down the Cape Fear River to the St. James Plantation Marina, another man made lagoon surrounded by condos, houses and a golf course, but with a laundry and surprisingly cheap.

There’s a lesson in all of this. Before calling for help, get some rest.

November 13, 2007

On Monday, we had another driving day heading due west and crossing into South Carolina, getting another geography lesson. North Carolina’s coast angles southeast to Cape Hatteras, heads west southwest to Cape Lookout near Beaufort, and then makes a big arc to slightly north of west, curving west, then falls sharply south to Cape Fear, due south of Wilmington, before deciding enough of southern progress, and heading due west again to the South Carolina boarder. We experience these grand curves of coast only vicariously as we skulk along behind dunes and miles of beach houses, which have become the invasive dune grass of the new millennium. They have long stems, hopefully higher than the next big one’s storm surge, topped by one, two or three stories of verandas and screened-in porches. We examine up close those that have spread on the waterway’s shores, but only see the ocean beach front variety as far off silhouettes. They range from handsome to gaudy to ghastly and beg the question: how much America is enough?

We pushed because we were eager to rendezvous with Boston friends Bill and Judy S. We identified Bucksport Marina as a good place to meet. They had spent the night at a hotel in Myrtle Beach, only about 20 waterway miles away. We left at 6:30 to make the 10 o’clock hourly opening of a pontoon bridge, a real oddity, and through what is billed as one of the ugliest sections of the waterway called the rock pile, the first real rocks we’ve seen on a shore line since Block Island, RI.

We pulled into Bucksport Marina to be greeted by dockhands, Judy, Bill and two others. When we had spoken earlier they thought they might look for a motel, and join us on the boat once we got to Charleston, but they explained emphatically they would be joining us on the boat. To us Bucksport Marina was a shore side nook along the beautiful Waccamaw River, lined with lush vegetation, a great bonus and visual relief after the dull banks of the canal cut that included the rock pile. To them Bucksport Marina was the end of a very lonely road in the middle of a cypress swamp. As Journey’s food locker was down to red beans and rice, we inquired whether the Marina restaurant would be open that night. The manager said that because there were so many boats in, she had called the cook and he was coming back, and we're we glad he did: fried oysters, shrimp, sweet potato fries, Bucksport sausage that was delicious, and a box of fried chicken to go.

Tonight M. and I ate the fried chicken at anchor another 62 miles mainly south and some east from Bucksport on Graham Creek, having continued down the Waccamaw, into Winyah Bay, then more canals and streams through the spectacular grass lands of the Santee Swamp. Charleston tomorrow and reconnect with Judy and Bill for our long planned tour and first time visit for all of us of this special southern city.