The Wolf, escaping narrowly certain destruction in Adams Creek, traversed the short leg to Beaufort, NC, where one crewmember was due to depart and another was set to replace him. This Tadventure© continues the narrative as we arrived to check out the town before departing, offshore, on the final leg to Charleston. Or so we thought. Others may disagree but I think Beaufort was a fun place to be, so much so, we visited twice.
Loyal readers will recall that we cheated death, managing to free the Wolf from Adams Creek (see: Day Five, MacGyver). As the anchor was retrieved, Agu kept the throttle on full GO and as we sped out of the creek into the Ditch proper, we were confronted by a huge barge being pushed by a tug. Weary from days and days of trying not to run aground, we decided to tuck in behind the tug and follow him as far south as we could. We had only a few miles to go to reach Beaufort so speed was not a concern.
The tug led us as far as Moorehead City, about two miles north of our final destination, where it pulled to the side and we slid past. Gary had made a reservation at the Beaufort Harbor docks to facilitate a change of crew, Agu departing to be replaced by Mary. Our plan was to leave the next day (Sunday) offshore for a 36 hour jaunt to Charleston, the Ditch just a memory (and copious notes to document them). Arriving around noon would leave us plenty of time to “check out” the town (see: Pub Crawl).
Wending our way carefully through the myriad markers, we located the marina and Gary gave them a shout on the radio. The dock master explained the location of our slip, necessitating a sharp left turn behind a 100 foot motor yacht tied to the end of a dock (coincidently the very same boat we had to dodge at our very first bridge back in Portsmouth, the “Emerald K”) followed by a very sharp right turn after passing a few multi-million dollar deep sea fishing boats and then heading into the slip with 20 knots of wind on our stern and a 2 knot current “helping” us along. Gary repeated the instructions to the dock master; the following brief conversation took place.
Gary: “Around Emerald K, past the big yellow boat with the tuna tower, down to the end of the fairway to the last slip on the right, is that correct?”
Beaufort Dock Master: “That’s right, Captain.”
Gary: “I think I’ll make a pass to take a look before coming in.”
BDM: “Good idea.”
[I don’t think I’ve ever heard a dock master encourage a boat to swing by for a look-see before coming into a slip.]
We slid by the side of Emerald K until clear of its stern and peered with trepidation at the obstacle course we were supposed to traverse. Gary, suddenly affected by a mild case of AJS, solicited input from Captain Danger and me. We decided the only way to make this thing work was by coming in, literally, “HOT.”
[The wind and the current were working together and would push us to the right as we entered the fairway. Normally, you go slowly when approaching immovable objects like docks, bridges, and seawalls but to do so in this case would result in a certain collision with one of the boats to starboard. We had to keep the throttle on (a LOT) to maintain steerage and hope the Captain judged properly the turns, the final one into our slip. Agu had a beer.]
Agu and I rigged lines fore and aft and fenders amidships. Agu remained at the stern with a dock line in hand; I stood on the bow in a similar fashion. Gary at the helm [you never want to drive someone else’s boat in times of possible danger and/or damage…let the owner take responsibility, eh?], the throttle was applied and we shot into the fairway (the open space between the docks). Our slip was situated right against the seawall that served as the Beaufort promenade so there was a large crowd on hand to watch; one assumes they were as cognizant of the trying conditions as we were, their attention rapt.
We slid by the stern of the Emerald K and I remember thinking, “Man, we’re hauling ass.” The current began to take effect, pushing the bow to starboard before we were ready to turn that way; Gary applied more throttle to maintain control. I spotted the dock hands standing at our slip and shouted to Gary its location. He couldn’t hear me and shouted, “What?” (in a voice that closely resembled the screech of a four year old girl). I turned back as I felt the wind, coming from our left, no longer blocked by the bulk of the 100 foot motor yacht. I thought, “Oh, crap.” Gary throttled up.
[As I alluded to in the previous recitation, there is a scene in the movie “Captain Ron,” during which Kurt Russell (Captain Ron) takes the helm of a smoke belching wreck of a sailing boat and heads into a marina at a very, very high rate of speed. The owner and his family are panicking; people on the bulkhead are running for their lives as the waterborne behemoth approaches them, death and destruction a certainty. Instead, Captain Ron spins the wheel at the perfect moment and the boat kisses gently the dock, the landing perfect.]
Heading in at an incredible speed, made even more precarious by the wind and the current, at the last moment I turned to Gary and shouted (not a panicked, girly shout; there were witnesses), “A little to the right, Skip.” He turned slightly more to the right and we slid into the slip like we did it every day. Agu said, “Reverse,” and Gary pushed the transmission to reverse and slid the throttle to its manliest position (and, probably bent the handle doing so). The boat stopped on a dime, the stern pulled to port, we kissed gently against dock. Agu and I “handed” our dock lines to the waiting dock hands, the boat so close and so perfectly positioned that tossing the lines was unnecessary. We turned to Gary and smiled.
You can’t imagine the feeling of entering perfectly a slip under those conditions with a hundred eyes upon you unless you’ve actually done it; it was a thing of beauty. Knowing we had achieved nautical greatness and evaded costly repairs, we giggled like kindergartners until our day was made even more perfect; the dock master said, “Welcome to Beaufort. Nice landing. When you’ve settled in, come up to the office and we’ll buy you a beer.” I thought Agu would pass out.
We scurried here and there straightening lines and throwing away empty beer cans, a new crewmember, Mary, due to join us later that afternoon; Agu had to leave for an important appointment back home (I suspected it was something liver related but I didn’t ask). We repaired to the dock master’s office to receive a token for a free beer at a pub located, conveniently, next door. It was one o’clock.
We quizzed the bar tender about “happening” places in Beaufort on a Saturday, a day made even more exciting since it was the Saturday before Halloween and all the local bars were decked out in spooky fashion, anticipating celebrations lasting well into the wee hours. She (the bar tender) gave us the names of three other places to “check out” and we set off on a Pub Crawl (see: Key West Pub Crawl), Mary, our new crewmember, not scheduled in until five or so.
The first place we found was populated by six or seven folks and eight or ten dogs. It was a tiny little nook, dark and woody, with an excellent selection of beer on tap. The stools were comfy and I saw no reason to leave, something that would require “effort.”
We quizzed also this bar tender, John, about the evening’s bar scene and he rattled off four or five places worthy of a visit and the times they opened and closed. One of the bars he mentioned was a transvestite joint. Agu’s ears perked up. [I have a don’t ask, don’t tell policy when it comes to things of this nature but I found it disturbing that Agu mentioned repeatedly for the remainder of the day that we should “check it out.” Truthfully, I would have gone had it not required hiring a cab and paying money to get there. I’m a Giver but I have my limits when it comes to spending cash to see freaks.] John the Bartender went on to tell us of a place that was open until 2:30 or 3:00. I said, chock full of incredulity, “In the morning?” John looked at me and smiled saying, “Buck up, little soldier.” [I tell this self-deprecating tale because it caused Gary and Agu to spit beer across the room, laughing to the point of choking, repeating it for the rest of the day (and, one supposes, they will continue for the rest of my life). In all honesty, it was a pretty damn funny line and John’s delivery was not left wanting in any respect. Hell, I laughed myself.] We finished our beers and struck out in search of another rathskeller, finding three more before four.
Later that very day, we took a stroll away from the docks looking for beer (for the boat) and on the way back, our quest a fool’s errand, stumbled across the Beaufort Graveyard, its headstones belying the fact that there were some really old dead people in residence. Agu it turned out was a fellow graveyard aficionado and we made a beeline to the marble orchard’s entrance. Gary, a scaredy cat of the first degree, eschewed the opportunity to wander around the ossuary and said he had “work” do to back on the boat. Agu and I made chicken noises (“balk, balk, balk”) as he walked quickly away, his head bowed in shame.
The place was incredible, its residents spanning four centuries. The markers were eclectic, some monumental, some like coffee tables, raised off the ground, some small, most illegible. Family plots were surrounded by traditional fencing, others had elaborate brick and mortar works. We surmised the underlying water table precluded burials of a traditional nature; many of the graves were above ground. It was really cool.
As we made our way toward the exit, we found one grave, marked by a large above ground sarcophagus, with lots of “stuff” on top (coins, flowers, medallions, keys, etc.); it looked like folks had just dropped on top whatever they had in their pockets. Agu and I left golf tees from my daughter’s wedding. Making our way back to the boat, we discovered Mary had arrived and we quickly briefed her about the “free arrival beer” and joined her at the bar.
[Mary, lovely lass that she was, had changed her travel plans in accordance with our numerous departure date modifications (see: Day One). She had planned to meet us initially in Galesville, then Norfolk, and finally in Beaufort. The woman’s gumption was beyond reproach.]
The four of us revisited the pubs we had investigated earlier that afternoon, stopped some place to eat (Clawson’s…don’t eat dinner there), and then repaired to the bar at the marina to watch the locals make total, Halloween clad, fools of themselves. It was quite fun. Around eleven PM, Agu, his final plea for a visit to Transvestiteville falling on deaf ears, and Gary said they were going back to the boat so we all left (see: crew).
Upon our arrival, Gary was transformed instantly into Martha Stewart, poking his head into every nook and cranny, looking for material to make up a bed for Mary. “You have sheets?!?!” I cried as he extracted clean bedclothes from within a hidden locker. “Sure,” he said. “Well why the hell didn’t you tell me or Agu about this? We’ve been stuck in sleeping bags; dinghy oars, life jackets, and kayak parts falling all around us for a week!” I whined. As he skittered to and fro, I saw him pull out two pillows. “PILLOWS?!?!” I screeched, my incredulity no longer held in check. “What’s next, chocolates?” Agu and I fought back tears, thinking of the comfort that had evaded us, victims of the Captain’s misguided chivalry. I stomped off to my berth, there to insert myself once again into a damp sleeping bag, my “pillow” a soiled canvas bag that smelled strangely of fish, my affection for the Captain at its nadir.
We awoke to bright sunshine, no ill effects from the previous day’s celebration evident. Agu packed his gear, preparing to drive back to Charleston in the car Mary had driven from Charleston. We all had a nice breakfast together and planned our departure for around one PM.
[Let me interject something about the weather at this point. As you will recall, we had faced two gales on our trip and the Beaufort region had encountered the same. The wind had blown, from the same direction, for days on end. Our arrival the previous day in 20 knots was indicative of what we could expect for our departure…only more. The weather forecast (conveniently played over and over and over on the radio beginning at seven AM) called for winds of 20-25 knots, on the nose for the remainder of the day and then moving to the west. (Hint: waves are made by wind.)]
After a pretty interesting maneuver to get the Wolf away safely from the dock, Gary, Mary, and I struck out for the main Beaufort channel, heading offshore to Charleston, 200 miles to the south.
I had donned my foulie pants before we left, the temperature warm, the sun ablaze, the wind sure to cause “some” spray. As we pointed the bow down the center of the channel, the full force of the wind hit me and I called to have my jacket handed up to me. Motoring into the choppy, four to five foot seas proved uncomfortable but the Wolf shouldered each wave aside, every fifth or sixth wave managing to shoot over the dodger to be deposited on the helmsman (me). The regular dousing was no big deal, you merely had to pay attention and duck your head at the appropriate time to avoid receiving a face full of salty sea water. Gary poked his head out of the companionway, “Did you take a Bonine this morning?” [Bonine is a chewable tablet containing mechlazine, a medication designed to preclude motion sickness. It has been my practice for many years to chew always a Bonine the first thing in the morning when offshore; the results were remarkable; I had never been seasick in my life. Today, I had forgotten.]
“No,” I replied. “Can you get me one?” Gary handed one up and I chewed it, thoughts of the pounding seas, my robust breakfast, and my lack of medication now planted firmly in my mind. I kept an eye on the horizon and concentrated on steering the Wolf through the channel, Mary helping to spot the buoys ahead. As we continued outbound (understandably slowed by the wind and waves despite the engine’s power), we passed a large catamaran, inbound. They waved to us and then stared for a very, very long time as we went by. I remember thinking that odd.
We continued in that fashion, the wind becoming stronger, the waves growing larger and larger. Normally, deeper water results in more of a swell than a wave but on this particular day, close to shore, the water was only about 60 feet deep and the waves were close to each other, banging into the boat with forces sufficient to stop us nearly in our tracks. We couldn’t sail with the wind directly on our nose so Warren was worthless. [“Slogging” is the word we use.] After about two hours, Gary stuck his head out of the companionway and said, “Dude, can you come take a look at this, I think we’re taking on water.”
“Slogging” had been transmogrified, through the Captain’s report of water ingress, to “sinking.” Mary took the helm and I headed below.
As I descended the companionway ladder, I expected to see the cabin sole awash, floorboards sloshing back and forth. To my relief, the floor was dry. “Come to the aft cabin,” Gary said. We made our way to the Lair. Gary pointed ominously to the starboard corner, toward some shelving that normally held clothes behind a sliding door. The shelves were full of water, moving back and forth in concert with the boat’s abbreviated motion through the waves. “Oh,” I said, not yet sure of the extent of our extremis. Looking more closely, I saw that most of the aft berth’s mattress was completely soaked and water was rushing into the shelf area as if someone were standing on deck dumping a bucket into a hole leading directly below. I climbed on the bunk to get a better view, worried that I might find a large crack in the hull. I didn’t. “Where do you think it’s coming from, Skip?” Gary said that he supposed a locker, at the rear of the vessel, had flooded, its drain hole clogged. We headed on deck to take a closer look.
All three of us now wearing life vests and tethers (used to clip on to jack lines, running from bow to stern, their purpose to keep you attached to the boat should you fall overboard), Gary clipped on and made his way to the stern. [The boat, by this time, was being inundated by nearly every wave, large quantities of water flying over the dodger and hitting the helmsperson with a resounding splat. Leaping from the top of a wave to the trough behind it, the Wolf was rising and falling through an arc of about 40 degrees every four seconds. Sitting on deck in such conditions was not just foolhardy, it was dangerous. In those conditions, Gary slid on his butt to the aft deck.]
Reaching the locker, Gary threw open the lid, its status exactly as he had surmised; it was full of water. [There was a small hole between the locker and shelves in the Lair, placed there to allow the passage of some wiring for the radio antenna connected to the back stay. It was through this small hole that a remarkable amount of water was being deposited inside the boat.] Gary called for a portable hand pump and began to pump the water from the locker. I chuckled as I watched the ocean, running down the deck and into the locker, its lid ajar, thinking, “This was what it must have been like on the Titanic while they watched the water rising, the bilge pumps overwhelmed.” I kept my thoughts to myself.
Gary, an astute observer himself, soon realized that he could not possibly pump out the water faster than it was going in (and, one might pause to consider, emptying the locker would only provide momentary relief; the cause of the problem was not water in the locker, that was the symptom; the cause was the clogged drain) and decided a different plan was required. Shouting above the wind to be heard, he said he needed to empty the locker and then clear the clog (no flies on Dr. Aston-Jones). I moved to a position behind the cockpit, between Mary at the helm and Gary at the stern as he began to hand me what turned out to be about 30 pieces of various lengths of line (not string, manly dock line stuff, saturated). I held firmly to the main sheet for balance with one hand and taking each piece in hand, transferred the line to the other hand, and then tossed them onto the cockpit floor occasionally hitting Mary in the back, back of the head, leg, arm, etc., I repeatedly repeated, “Sorry.”
The locker finally empty of line (it was about four feet deep with a two foot square opening), Gary called once again for the hand pump. His efforts met with the same results; the water was coming in a lot faster than he could pump it out. Gary, smart fella, picked up on that and abandoned the pump after first shaking it to make sure it was empty. [Ok, this was the funniest thing I had seen in a long time. Picture this: Gary was sitting on the aft deck, a couple of inches of ocean swirling around everywhere, making its way inexorably into the open locker aperture. He quit pumping, but before handing the pump back to me, he held it OVERBOARD to drain it, not wanting the minute remnants to enter the locker! I laughed my ass off (and so did he when three days later I mentioned it to him).]
Gary lay upon the deck and reaching into the locker managed to remove the clog. The locker, thankfully, drained. He made his way back to the cockpit for a rest [I don’t need to mention that AJS was in full swing this entire time, do I?]. I began feeling the effects of mal de mer.
[One thing you are always told to avoid in trying conditions is going below. The other thing you don’t want to do is to focus on something on the boat; your attention should be directed to the horizon, a stable element, rather than something that is pitching and yawing and leaping like a rodeo bull. I had violated both rules and I freely admit that I was on the verge of revisiting my breakfast.]
I told Mary that I needed to steer for a while, something that would usually revive a crewman under the influence of sea sickness. [Did I mention that Mary was one damn fine sailor? She stood at the helm, battling the waves crashing upon her, enduring the constant barrage of heavy, wet lines across her back (and, on one occasion, a 10 foot length of chain that I dropped on her sandaled foot) without complaint or concern.] Mary said she could use the break to remove her contact lenses. I took the helm to be welcomed by green, salty water in my face, my eyes burning immediately and wondered, “How the hell did she stand up here for two hours with salt water in her contact lensed eyes without complaint?” [I would sail to hell and back with Mary. She was fantastic.]
The sun was beginning to set and Gary checked our position. We had made about 17 miles (in four hours) and the wind showed no sign of shifting to the west as forecast, the waves showed no hint that they might diminish. [I don’t think we were ever in “danger.” Rather, we were uncomfortable.] We tried to head in a more easterly direction, hoping the effects of wind and waves would be diminished but after an hour or so, Gary was concerned we might hit the Gulf Stream; we tacked back to the west. It only got worse.
Gary stepped next to me at the helm and said, “We’re getting killed, you’re not feeling well, and this is no fun.” He waited for me to signify my agreement, knowing full well what he had in mind. Then he uttered the words by which I shall always remember with great fondness the trip and the man: “It’s not like we’re at war.”
I cracked up and we turned, the Wolf’s tail tucked firmly between its legs, back to Beaufort.
