On the ICW - Still - Nearing Charleston

We made New Smyrna Beach about 7:45 May 15, having traveled for nine and one half hours, nearly one-half under sail up the narrow channel in the broad bodies of water of the Indian River and Mosquito Lagoon. We were the last to be seated at a restaurant called the Deli which served extraordinary dinners. On Friday, we reached Palm Coast after a seven hour trip with about three hours of sailing in the persistent southwest wind, and tied up at one of those carved-out-of-the-land square marinas surrounded by condominiums. We were referred to a faux St. Mark’s Square a ten minute walk away that offered several dinner options.

It was buildings with balconied windows surrounding a triangular area, a three-sided big screen TV in the middle playing the Celtics playoff game, a DJ on the stage beneath, bars, restaurants, shops, and lots of people. We had another delicious meal at an Italian restaurant, and remain rather awestruck by the reasonable prices, fresh produce, and interesting flavors compared to the Bahamas. People were enjoying themselves.

On Saturday, May 17, we made a 22 mile hop to St. Augustine and did a trolley tour with a good guide and we realized how much we missed on our first visit in January, seemingly eons ago. That evening, Debbie, a life-long friend of Steffi’s and Charlie’s who lives in St. Augustine, joined us on Journey before we all left for dinner. A bird decided to leave a rather huge calling card, most of which landed on the bimini, but some reached the cockpit, hitting Debbie’s slacks, to which she commented: “That’s a real party pooper”.

Now it seems is the hard part. We cast off from St. Augustine yesterday morning with waves to Steffi, Charlie and Debbie who will drive them to Jacksonville Airport. They would be home in Boston by that evening, and we on Journey are weeks away. We cleared the St. Augustine temporary aerial bridge at 9:00 and went with the considerable tidal current out the St. Augustine inlet to sea, plotting courses for Charleston, 179 nm, Cape Fear, 289, NM and Beaufort, North Carolina, 369 nm, courses that would take from 32 to 67 hours to complete by sea, cutting days from our travel time.

Our auto pilot of late has been limping along. We can’t seem to align the compass, but can still set a northwesterly course and it will hold it. As we set the course of 32 degrees magnetic for Charleston, the autopilot stopped working with a message saying “no data”. We have gone through the alignment process several times which consists of driving at least two circles in calm waters while it shows a little orbiting motion on its screen. The result has been a huge 42 degree compass deviation. It should be less than ten. A call to Raymarine from the Bahamas, advised how to check resistance between several wires where the fluxgate compass connects to its black box computer to see if the compass is working. More than I wanted to do, and if we found it wasn’t working there would have been little chance to get a repair in the Bahamas.

It held well on the passage from the Bahamas to Port Canaveral, but now we couldn’t use it for just the two of us on a passage, and it really is an important third hand to allow a loan person on watch to adjust sails, go below to check the radar, adjust the radio and other tasks that take you away from the helm while the other crew member is fast asleep. So instead of a passage we made for Fernandina Beach, 40 miles away, the wind on a close reach and freshening and freshening and freshening.

The forecast had called for west to southwest winds 15 to 20. They were 20 and more. By the time we turned into the St. Mary’s River inlet they were blowing on our nose to near gale force, once hitting 37 knots. We had a two-and-one-half knot current with us, thank heavens, as we would stall to one or two knots, pushing into sharp steep seas that would blow spray over the boat, soaking it and us, but never broke over Journey. It lasted over 45 minutes until we could turn south towards Fernandina Harbor Marina. They told us we would be on the inside of the breakwater about six boats down. When we made the u- turn into the marina and the lee of the breakwater, the water was flat, the wind was on our beam at over twenty, blowing us off the dock and we had a two-knot current behind us. As we moved along the row of boats on our port, we came across dock hands and spontaneous volunteers, not at the end of the row of boats, but standing between two of them in a space that would be small for Newberry Street before Christmas, who shouted for us to land there. Full reverse, watching the prop walk, forward to ease us over, full reverse and comfort coming in little snippets, like the folks on the stern of their trawler in the space that would be just aft of us saying, “don’t worry we’ll fend you off, we used to be sailors”. Then fast forward to bring the bow into the wind and the dock at about 45 degree angle, then hard to starboard with the rudder to bring the stern over, full reverse, spring line, stern line, bow line thrown and we were fast along side, parked snug, not a scratch on anyone. Many thanks offered to great line handlers on shore, AC power plugged in and then the nicest thing. It was 7:30. The couple in that trawler walked along side with a bottle of red wine, glasses in their hands, invited us to grab two glasses and poured a delicious Chianti that he, Hal, had made. Hal and Janet didn’t visit long. They knew we were beat, grubby and tired, so politely didn’t linger past a half of glass consumed. I now realize how doubly thoughtful they were in suggesting we grab our own glasses. We were reminded again of why we do this: the surprising, generous gestures of hospitality offered again and again by people who share the bond of being daily, visibly, constantly challenged by the sea.

On Monday, May 19, we thought about laying over a day to catch our breath after 10 days straight underway, including the strenuous overnight passage from the Bahamas to Florida. But we awakened to remarkably diminished winds, and decided to press on, frustrated with our passage making being thwarted by the erratic auto pilot, anxious about our timing that would put us near a shoal area on Jekyll Creek, near Brunswick, GA, at low tide, and fussing at each other. Southwest winds built during the day and a swarm of green heads hung and buzzed beneath the bimini and migrated below, but didn’t bite. We put our screens in the passageway to limit the number who could lurk for us in the salon. It got hotter, but we were able to sail and motor sail depending on the coil we traveled of serpentine Georgia section of the ICW.

About noon we turned a bend into the dreaded shoal section of Jekyll Creek and approaching us was a barge pushed by a tug boat. We radioed and got good advice. We should pass on “two whistles”, starboard to starboard, and we should pass him as close as possible. He would not be making any sudden changes. We did as told and were side by side in the shallowest section, his propellers churning mud. He then radioed that we were past the worse part. A threat became a comfort.

We crossed Brunswick Harbor and continued to snake through the Georgia marshlands to an anchorage just off the waterway on New Teakettle Creek near mile marker 645 (from Norfolk) on the ICW. Our anchor was down at 6:35 and we had traveled 71 statute miles over the land, or 61.7 nautical miles, but our trip log showed that the boat had traveled 70 nautical miles. The reason for the difference is the extraordinary tidal currents of the Georgia coast, frequently reaching two knots and occasionally more. The current shifts in direction and force are affected by the state of the flood or ebb of the tide, and the boats proximity to inlets, large or small, to the ocean. We literally turn a corner and go from one-and-a half knots of current on our nose, to one-and-a-half knot pushing us, changing our speed over the ground by three knots, while the knot meter showing progress through the water reads the same. Cruising guides suggest not trying to play the currents, as they tend to average out.

This was a breathtakingly beautiful anchorage. We were alone, surrounded by miles of marsh. The wind went calm. The sun set red. The full moon rose orange and we slept well.

On May 20, strong winds again from the west and south west so we sailed and motor sailed 61nm to the Hinckley Boat Yard in Thunderbolt near Savanah with hopes of getting the autopilot fixed and all fluids and filters changed in the engine. We were tied up at 5:30 and soon after a fellow stopped by and introduced himself as Bob Crockett, son of the Crockett of Crockett’s Victory Garden. His wife is in Florida where they are selling their house and will be moving aboard a Hans Christian Bob has been refitting in Savanah. He asked if we would like to join him for dinner and offered to drive us to a nearby restaurant in Thunderbolt. We learned he is a dual citizen of the US and Canada, and was a boat builder for most of his career in Nova Scotia near Lunenburg. He moved from wooden boats to aluminum, and built two of Canada’s 12-meter entries into the America’s cup. The move to Florida was to continue building boats there, but that career waned and he became a “life coach”. They plan to cruise awhile, but then resettle in Nova Scotia. They may be another arrival in Teel Cove this summer.

Hinckley’s electrician knew less about the autopilot than we did. We orbited Journey for nearly two hours while he repositioned the location of the fluxgate compass, then unhooked ours and tried his own spare compass, all to know avail. I called Raymarine again in frustration, described the symptoms to a technician. The Autopilot has two compasses. One is the fluxgate, which we had tested and it was fine. The other is a gyrocompass built into the black box. The fluxgate was all that autopilots had for years. The gyrocompass adds more refined corrections and additional functions. He told me how to open the box and unplug the gyrocompass. We now need to orbit those circles again to see if we can get it working with fluxgate alone.

We left Hinckley about three yesterday and traveled 15.4nm to anchor on the Cooper River just across the border of South Carolina near mile marker 578. As we approached there was a small boat pulling kids on a tube. All around were dolphins and as the kids were getting off of the tube into the boat, two dolphins were by them, heads out of the water and, as M. wrote in an e-mail to a friend last night, looked as if they were carrying on a conversation. It was another, beautiful quiet anchorage and on the way out, noticed the only other boat was from Boston. We hollered as we went by to learn he was based at Constitution Marina, three blocks from our house. Our HOUSE!

So why is this the hard part? Even in the abundance of this experience we have moments of longing for home, that place that can never be what we imagine it to be. Bill S. comment last fall observing boats on the ICW look like the march of the escargot comes back to us. We are a snail it seems crawling along days behind an arbitrary schedule. Our longing tunnels vision to straight ahead, northeast, and then we don’t see what is at hand until we are given sight again by the dockhands, the spontaneous dispensers of wine in safe harbors, drivers to dinner, and beautiful anchorages. They bring us back to the gift of the moment, and living there is the only truly lasting home we will ever have.

We tried to align the auto pilot one more time yesterday. We’ve placed another call to Raymarine and maybe we can get the course correction computer replaced in Norfolk. The anchor was set last night about a mile off of the North Edisto River on Tom Point Creek. Again, all alone except for the abundance of acres, birds, dolphins whose each breath we could hear, and acres of marsh grass brilliant green at its base with golden tops. Tonight is a marina night near Charleston, SC, for laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, in other words, the stuff of life. Such a contrast.