The Tadventure© moves right along with Dire Wolf logging the most miles in the history of ICW travel (for us). The weather was closing in as we moved in a southerly direction, sheer terror on the horizon (another gale). Others may disagree but this particular day would serve well as a primer for what not to do in the Ditch.
Our goal for Day Four was to reach the friendly environs somewhere in the neighborhood of Oriental, NC. We had heard of spectacular anchorages, free beer, and dancing girls that awaited the stout mariner on the southerly swing. As with most things in these stories, the exact truth turned out differently.
We hoisted anchor at first light, Agu had “breakfast,” and Gary and I took turns driving and peeing off the stern. We zipped down the Pungo River to the Pamlico River, cut through Goose Creek, transited the Bay River (stupid name, if you ask me), and were deposited, fully clothed, into the Neuse River, the last hurdle before reaching Oriental (or, the generally proximity thereof). During the day’s voyage, Agu and Gary went back and forth about where to stay for the night.
Agu averred that the weather forecast (approaching gale) would push the water out of most places we might anchor (they don’t have moon tides in the Ditch for the most part, tidal range is caused primarily by wind pushing the water here and there) and we needed to be cautious. Gary maintained his usual obdurate ways and insisted that we should try to make entry through a very narrow, very shallow channel, there to find a marina at which he had secured a berth for the evening via telephonic communication. As usual, Gary and Agu listened intently to the weather forecast. [Here’s how weather broadcasts work: There is a recording, a loop if you will, that is played over and over and over and over, rarely changing throughout the day, broadcast by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Agency (NOAA) on VHF radio. The voices are computer generated and “read” the same text format you can download from NOAA’s website. Gary and Agu listened to the weather channel EVERY second of every day, in much the same manner, I assume, one listened religiously to Edward R. Murrow’s broadcasts during World War II…except it was always the same damn thing, sort of D Day meets Groundhog Day. Call me what you will, I freely admit my interest waned after the twenty-seventh repetition.] The hour was getting late as we approached Whittaker Creek, its entry clearly marked, its depths unknown. It began to rain.
I swallowed my opinions regarding “Gary’s Folly” (I did, of course, later make copious and exact notes) and relayed faithfully the electronic chart’s position indicators (left of channel, right of channel, in the channel, “oh shit”) to Gary at the helm. The telltale symptoms of Aston-Jones Syndrome soon appeared as the skipper carefully navigated the Wolf up the channel toward the marina lying at its headwaters. I mentioned to the Captain (calmly, serenely), “Um, you might want to slow down a bit. I don’t mind running aground slowly, but a hard grounding at this hour might ruin our evening.” My thoughtful suggestion was met with a burst of AJS “gunfire” but he did slow down (the boat, not the rate of fire). As we neared the final mark, our keel having been cleansed repeatedly during our transit, Gary decided that entering the creek had been a bad idea, just as we had “made it.” He “asked” us to find him a way “the hell out of here.” Agu and I exchanged knowing glances (more like smirks than glances) and set about the arduous navigation tasks necessary to enable Captain Bligh to extricate us from the predicament he had created for himself (Agu and I are Givers).
Spinning the Wolf around in a narrow space is something you would think had been mastered by this time (see: Bridge Dancing) but Gary seemed particularly inept on this occasion. Rather than turning to the right (starboard) as he should endeavor always to do (the propeller, in forward, assists the turn to the right and, in reverse, assists the turn by pulling the stern to the left; if done properly, you can spin the boat in its own length, something I had tried to teach Gary repeatedly, but, owing to his Pavlovian Bladder Condition, he was never around to hear), Gary turned to the left, increasing the turning radius to a frightful extent, given our position. He let go a real good shot of AJS as the depth sounder readout fell precipitously before our eyes. Looking around, I espied a Tayana 37, nestled securely against a bulkhead, its owners a couple I have known for years. I immediately ignored the skipper, grabbed the nearby handheld radio, tuned it to a [non-weather] channel, and hailed my acquaintances in the hopes of soliciting guidance in re anchoring and/or docking in the vicinity. My friends informed [us] that we were, in a word, scrod, and suggested we head, instead, to Adams Creek, a mere mile away. [I may have left out the part where, earlier in the day, we had decided Adams Creek was the place for us to be, but Gary’s insistence on spelunking Whittaker Creek took precedence; he was, after all, the boat’s owner.]
The depth decreasing with every minute, we throttled up, digging a noteworthy trench beneath us (something the local mariners must surely appreciate), and discovered once again the deep waters of the Neuse River. We set a course for Adams Creek, skies overcast, darkness descending directly. Looking back, I saw a 49 foot Hinckley (sailboat) enter easily the channel and make its way to its reserved dock space [just sayin’].
The instructions I had received from my fellow Tayana owners for entering Adams Creek were as follows:
“Go around the range light, past the sunken sailboat, and anchor in the middle. Be careful though, with the forecast, there may not be any water in the creek tomorrow; the wind will blow it out.”
I got on my cell phone and called two guys back home that were intimately familiar with that particular anchorage and was informed that they had “dug a bit of the bottom out” when last they tried to exit the creek a few years before. I didn’t bother informing the Captain about my surreptitious communiqué, I was tired and hungry, an Agu masterpiece on my personal horizon.
We entered the creek as instructed, dropped the massive 55 lb. Delta anchor, proven time and time again to be the cat’s pajamas in the anchor department, and busied ourselves staying out of Agu’s way as he prepared the traditional gin and tonics, signifying the end of a long and arduous trek along the Ditch. Dinner, if I recall correctly, was spectacular.
