Day Three of the “Wolf Heads South,” a Tadventure© of demonstrable clarity and veracity, finds the boat tied securely to a bulkhead in Coinjock, NC, the crew showered and rested, a hearty meal having been consumed the night before. Others may disagree but this third installment promises to be short.
As previously reported, Dire Wolf managed to navigate safely through a labyrinth of bridges, locks, missing markers, islands, and grounded barges to find itself within the friendly confines of Coinjock, NC. Darkness fell upon our arrival as we fueled the boat, anticipating an early departure. Agu, until now, a caricature of a beer swilling nincompoop, demonstrated his incredible culinary skills and prepared a repast the likes of which contribute to legend. The man can cook. [Aside: Though I have, until now, given Agu short shrift, the truth is the man is one helluva a sailor, better than anyone else on the boat. He’s sailed offshore for many, many years on his various boats, most lacking simple creature comforts like a dodger, roller furling, and comfy pillows. He eschewed the electronic charts we had at our disposal, opting instead to apply parallel rules and dividers to paper charts and demonstrated a remarkable ability, using traditional methods, to pinpoint our location at all times and, more importantly, to discern the exact compass heading we should follow leading away from certain death and destruction (see: Sea Monsters). I shall be forever grateful to the man for his efforts and, more to the point, for making me biscuits each evening, something I truly love. He also made one mean Gin and Tonic.]
As the sun’s light kissed the morning sky, we shoved off, our destination a small anchorage just past the Pungo Canal. I busied myself washing expertly the dishes, pots, and pans rendered slatternly by Agu’s piquant efforts the night before, moving about the galley made child’s play by the steady, even keeled movement of the yacht through the water.
Day Three was more than just a continuation of our journey, it was a Thursday, a day that held the promise of a Virginia Tech football game, scheduled to take place at eight o’clock that very evening, against our conference rival, Clemson (“Climpson”), then rated number ten in the country. I had warned Gary that a condition of my presence on the journey was my ability to listen to the Tech game and I had brought along my XM radio for that very purpose (frankly, I was going to push the point by requiring him to find us a marina and/or sports bar so I could actually watch the game, but I am, after all, a Giver). After completing my galley chores (see: Cinderella), I dressed appropriately, donning all my Tech regalia, poked my head out of the companionway, and announced, “IT’S GAME DAY, BABY!” Agu, a fellow member of the “Order of the Giver,” smiled. Gary, a University of Virginia alum (UVA SUCKS!), groaned.
Agu passed by me on the way to the galley to prepare cinnamon breakfast rolls and grab a beer while Gary and I settled in to our usual routine of monotonous motoring. I thought it appropriate to discuss, as a preemptive strike, the nefarious goings on from the night before. Agu and Gary had managed to find and imbibe some sort of exotic, intoxicating elixir that transformed them instantly from men of science to frat boys on a panty raid.
I had retired early, my energy spent after a long day of careful attention and skillful navigation (and two extremely stout g&ts), and fell immediately to sleep. At some point during the evening, I was rudely roused in my rack (sleeping nook) by two crazed teenagers, their eyes wild, loud gibberish betraying the fact that they had managed to locate the key to the liquor cabinet. They tried, in vain, to rip my sleeping bag from around me, all the time screaming like banshees and taking flash photos. Being the good sport that I am, I laughed off these high jinx and made a mental note to lock the door to my cabin from that point forward. I also considered spiking Agu’s beer and Gary’s coffee with some form of vitamin C, the potential cause of their aberrant behavior, scurvy.
As I said, I mentioned this in passing to Gary on Thursday morning in an effort to establish firmly in his mind a precedent, knowing full well I would be shouting at the top of my lungs and jumping around the deck well into the coming evening; the Hokie game started at eight PM. I think I managed to get the point across.
Another gorgeous, but chilly, day was ahead and we found ourselves in the Albemarle sound, the wind perfectly positioned just aft of the beam and, with the welcome respite of a wide open body of water across which we could sail, Warren took the helm. We enjoyed a few beers as the sun shone down, Warren’s performance beyond reproach. I took a few moments to sit on the bowsprit to experience the dulcet sounds of water being parted by the Wolf’s bow as we headed to the Alligator River bridge through which we passed without incident (or much dancing). After making an uneventful passage through the Alligator River we entered the Pungo canal.
The Alligator River – Pungo Canal is a cut, almost exactly straight (it has a slight turn to the right just before its mid point), of nearly 20 miles. The canal is littered on both sides by truncated tree trunks, jutting out of the water near the shore, a tangible warning to stay in the middle. I remember thinking it was a marvelous example of engineering as it extended before us, straight and true for miles and miles. Warren, not worth a tinker’s damn when it came to steering the boat while motoring or when staying in the middle is of prime concern, was replaced by C3P0, the electronic autopilot. No bridges in sight, his bladder empty, Gary was on watch. Agu, suffering from the previous night’s joviality (and his aborted attempt to “pants” me), napped below.
The shoreline passed by, its features uninterrupted by signs of man (other than the canal itself) and I cogitated upon two things: one, it be easy for some toothless, trailer dwelling, dueling banjo playing Cletus to take up station in the woods lining each side of the canal and pick off boaters as they traversed the waterway (the distance so short as to assure a deposit in the ten ring a virtual certainty) and two, after our gentle grounding(s) the day before, I wondered what it would be like if the Wolf struck the bottom with a full head of steam. I discovered empirical evidence as to the latter as we wandered too far to port and the Wolf’s speed dropped from seven knots to none in a little under one second; grounding number five now a part of our ICW travelogue. I have to assume the underlying canal bottom lying under us was soft mud rather than rock or concrete or hard packed sand since I was not thrown immediately forward into the stays, there to suffer the same physical insult as an egg when brought in contact with an egg slicer; we just sort of stopped. Gary heaped instantly blame upon C3P0 for its inability to hold a straight course (accompanied as you might imagine by some A-JS banter), his own inebriated state in no way contributing to our plight. [That was a cheap shot. I don’t think he’d had more than seven or eight beers by then, apparently intent on matching Agu beer for beer.] Alas, we once again applied the manly mix of a full right rudder and a red-lined engine and off we went, afloat once more. We laughed.
Anchoring for the night just outside the canal, we settled in for another of Agu’s masterpieces (replete with biscuits) and waited excitedly for the eight o’clock kickoff, the mood tempered slightly by Clemson’s top ten ranking.
Agu, stout fellow, popped a beer and propped himself up in a comfy cockpit lounge chair and feigned great interest in the game. Gary, the UVA alum, asseverated his interest in the game was nil but hung around for the first quarter or so, bemused by your author’s child-like behavior — jumping wildly to and fro with each play, shouting encouragement as if it would make a difference. Gary’s fascination ended soon after I regaled him with one of the Hokies’ classic cheers (“Stick it in, stick it in, stick it in”) and the traditional waving in the air of car keys on critical defensive third down plays (“Key Play”) and trotted off to the Lair. [I freely admit my attempt to open the aft hatch situated immediately above Gary’s bunk in order to shout loudly, inappropriate things, about the game, ignite flashbulbs in his face, and generally recreate the “fun” of the previous evening. Unfortunately, the rat bastard had locked the hatch from inside.]
Agu stuck with me as the Hokies sent the number ten team in the land, Tiger tails between their legs, back to South Carolina; confusion, despair, defeat.
I drifted off to sleep, the deep sleep of those who dominate the world of collegiate football, at least for one night.
