The Tadventure© continues with the second day of the trek from Annapolis to Charleston on the good ship, Dire Wolf. Day Two finds our stout sailors in Portsmouth, Virginia following a raucous and wet sail down the Chesapeake Bay at night. Others may disagree but I think Day Two promises to be even more fun! [Warning: this missive contains adult language.]
Avid readers will recall the rollicking good times we had narrowly avoiding a disastrous collision with a freighter in the middle of the night as we plied the shark infested waters of the Chesapeake Bay. This day, Wednesday, promised to be even more fun.
We had arrived at the southern end of the Chesapeake in the wee hours of the morning (around 3 AM) and turned to starboard (right) to begin wending our way past the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, the Norfolk Naval Base, and the Portsmouth commercial docks after which, the Intracoastal Waterway, Mile Zero, lurked.
The trip down the Bay had been cold and wet. Very cold. Very Wet. Very, very cold with temperatures hovering in the mid 30’s. When we turned to starboard to go “over” the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, we swung around directly into the biting teeth of the wind, its sting enhanced by the periodic addition of salt water being blown off the tops of the waves. Standing bravely behind the helm clad in heavy clothing, gloves, and a wool cap, your author managed to bring the vessel safely through the buoy strewn minefield of red and green and white and yellow lights. The most difficult portion of the journey complete, I turned the helm over to the vessel’s owner, Colonel Wolf (Gary), confident that even he could handle the relatively simple steering chores, passing by the fantails of three enormous aircraft carriers docked nearby and down a well-lit, well-buoyed channel. Captain Danger assisted the effort by heading below for a beer.
[There is something, shall we say, “unique” about Dr. Gary Aston-Jones, Esq. that can be, on occasion, to the inexperienced, shall we say, “off-putting” about his behavior during times of stress or when a certain task does not proceed as initially planned; Gary tends to swear. Now, I’m sure many of us have let slip an expletive or two when things haven’t gone just right. Why, I myself recall being unable to suppress a verbal outpouring when once I cut my finger during a complicated engine repair and shouted, “Darn!” These things happen to characters of the stoutest variety. Gary, on the other hand, tends to swear in a much more creative way; he swears like someone suffering from Tourette Syndrome, an uncontrollable stream of epithets emitted with the rapidity and staccato of a Thompson submachine gun on full auto (he does not exhibit the vocal or facial tics associated with this unfortunate malady leading me to believe research may one day define a new illness, “Aston-Jones Syndrome”). The creativity of the content is lacking (no noteworthy phrases result, just pedestrian cussing you might find in any high school locker room, a small subset of the seven words you can’t say on TV) but it is more than enhanced by the remarkable delivery and volume. If you’re not used to this, and you find yourself out in the ocean, miles away from any help, you might be a bit “concerned” that the skipper has “lost it.”
I mention this as Gary was at the helm when it got a bit difficult (for him) to discern the proper channel markers against a background of a million lights, tugs and barges and huge ships moving to and fro ahead and astern, and Captain Danger shouting navigational instructions from below, his words drowned out, instantaneously, by the howling wind and the sound of our own engine.]
It was now almost four AM and we had all gone without sleep for nearly 24 hours; Gary’s performance was, by any measure, remarkable. No simple instruction or comment from crew to Captain escaped his keen attention.
Crew (calm, serene voice): “You should have a green buoy, flashing every 3 seconds, about a quarter of a mile ahead, on your left.”
Capt: “WHAT!?!??!?! I can’t see a FUCKING THING and what about these tugs…where did that SON OF A BITCH come from? Why can’t you guys tell me where the HELL I should be going? Oh, man (heavy sigh), I’m just gonna sell this boat here. This is stupid. I’m just gonna leave it here, list it with a broker, and fly home. JESUS!! Why can’t these FUCKERS move over?” (flips off a tug passing harmlessly behind us as he screams, “YOU FUCKER!”.)
Crew (calm, serene voice): “I think I see the buoy right over there off the end of that pier. About 11 o’clock. Do you see it?”
Capt: “I can’t see a FUCKING THING out here. Give me a compass heading! ANYTHING! GODDAMN IT! Where are all these FUCKING tugs coming from? Why aren’t these guys in bed at home?!?!? JESUS!”
Crew (calm, serene voice): “Come a little to the right.” (this usually precipitates a near collision as the Captain runs almost straight into a buoy about the size of a minivan, brightly lit with a blazing green, flashing light on top, directly in front of the boat)
Capt: “Where the FUCK did that come from?!?!?!?!?!? Why didn’t you BASTARDS tell me about that green buoy?!?!? JESUS, do I have to do this all by MYSELF?!?!?!?”
[Anyway, you get the idea. Our usual modus operandi was to speak softly and ignore most of the tirade. It’s really pretty harmless and once you’re used to it, you spend most of your time suppressing a giggle or an outright guffaw.]
We managed to run the gauntlet and made our way to the Tidewater Yacht Marina where we had once made reservations, anticipating an arrival on a completely different day (see: Hartges engine repair). Since it was still the middle of the night, we made ourselves comfortable by tying lines to an empty bulkhead near their fuel dock and turned in for a few hours of rest before we had to head out to Mile Zero of the Ditch and the first bridge opening at 0830 that morning. Naturally, we had no desire or intent to pay for our dockage. I fell asleep instantly.
At what turned out to be about 0820, I was awakened by Gary’s stage whisper to Agu, still snuggled in his bunk, “Hey, I think they’re on to us. Let’s go!” We scrambled on deck to remove the dock lines as Gary fired up the engine. Our getaway successful, we pointed the Wolf southward, 205 miles in the Ditch ahead of us to Beaufort. Agu grabbed a beer.
We felt like singing “We’re Off to See the Wizard” as the throttle was applied with gusto; fame, glory, and certain jocularity ahead. We were pretty full of ourselves until a few minutes went by and Agu said, “Let me check something,” as he jumped below. Seconds later he stuck his head up and informed us that what we thought was the Yellow Brick Road was the wrong branch of the Elizabeth River and we had to turn around (Day Two, it would turn out, had its own Wicked Witch waiting for us).
[Background: The Intracoastal Waterway (ICW, the “Ditch”) is a 4,800 mile passageway from New Jersey to Brownsville, Texas that was built to allow a safe, inshore route for recreational and commercial traffic. It was authorized in 1919 and is supposed to be maintained by the Corps of Engineers at a minimum depth of 12 feet. Much like the “toe bone’s connected to the foot bone, the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone…” the ICW takes advantage of many natural waterways (i.e., the Chesapeake Bay) and man made avenues (i.e., canals), which are combined to form the “Ditch.”
Our route from Annapolis to Charleston was to include the ICW if weather conditions prevented us from heading out in the ocean in Norfolk on a direct, offshore passage. A gale represented “sufficient” conditions to prevent that option. Ergo, we planned to head, in the Ditch, to Beaufort, NC and from there jump out directly to Charleston.]
Once we found our way down the correct branch of the Elizabeth River, we encountered the first of many obstacles facing a sailing yacht (and may power boats) as they navigate the waterway: a bridge.
[Bridges cross the waterway at many points along the route. Some bridges are built to allow a minimum clearance of 65’ above the water and easily allow a sailboat to pass beneath (boats with taller masts just don’t take the ICW route since, in the rock/paper/scissors hierarchy of the Ditch, bridges beat masts). Other bridges, however, must be opened to allow the passage of boats, their clearances often 20 feet or less above the water. At these times, the ICW mariner is challenged on two fronts: 1. In the company of 10 or so other boats, all awaiting an opening to allow passage, and with a current usually flowing about 2 knots, and in a narrow channel, don’t run aground or into another boat, and 2. Trying to schedule your arrival so the bridge is actually open in some reasonable proximity to your arrival (a challenge you might consider trivial until you realize that bridges generally open only on the half hour or on the hour and they are cleverly spaced in such a way that it’s almost impossible for a sail boat to get from one to the next in the time allotted (power boats can go much faster).
In the former instance, mariners engage in the “Bridge Dance,” a lithesome ballet of boats, most 40 feet or greater in length, pirouetting gracefully about each other in a space across the channel of 100 feet or so while being propelled either nearer to or further from the bridge span by the current. Sailboats, as you might imagine, are built to sail, not motor, so the concept of maneuvering in close quarters is not a design feature that keeps naval architects awake at night (power boats usually find it in their repertoire to simply “hold station” in the middle of the channel, the result of which is the creation of a “hazard to navigation”). Extreme boat handling skills are required by all dancers lest the entire fleet find itself pushed against an immovable object (bridge) akin to a mosh pit at a head-banger concert [“older” readers can contact me for further explanation, if necessary].
Bridge dancing is a stressful time and, strangely, any time we approached a bridge, some Pavlovian reaction demanded that Gary leave the helm to pee. “Take the helm for a second, I have to pee,” he would say as he ducked below, to return, coincidently with the opening of the bridge.
In the latter instance, you are at the mercy of the current, the space between bridges, and the immutable forces of Newtonian physics. Finding yourself “close” to making an opening was a major disappointment as you watched the span close just ahead of your arrival; you did everything in your power to ensure that didn’t happen. When it did, Gary regaled us with some thoughtful, Aston-Jones Syndrome views on various subjects, including but not limited to: bridges, bridge tenders, the ICW, the government (state, federal, and local), the offspring and lineage of bridge tenders, suggested [sexual] activities in which bridge tenders, alone or in company, might engage, and so on. Agu, of course, simply opened a beer.
With this information firmly in your grasp, we can continue our saga with Dire Wolf approaching the very first bridge on the ICW.]
We calculated carefully our arrival in accordance with the bridge’s published opening schedule. Naturally, it did not open on time. Gary said, “I have to pee,” and left the helm to relieve himself. I stepped in to begin the dance, made truly exciting by a 100’ yacht sitting right in the middle of the channel.
We watched with rapt interest the clock as more and more boats piled up behind us in anticipation of the bridge opening. The movements soon took on the appearance of a square dance as we bobbed and weaved among and between each other all the time trying to avoid the 100’ hazard to navigation holding station right in the middle of the channel. Time passed. More time passed. The time for the bridge to open passed. Tempers began to rise.
All bridge tenders (well, everyone I’ve ever encountered) monitor channel 13 on the VHF radio so we always listen to that channel. Every approaching vessel, despite the presence of 10 or 15 yachts obviously waiting for an opening, felt it necessary to call the tender and to announce their arrival, their desire to pass beneath the bridge (when opened), and generally engage in superfluous chatter. Jackasses.
Careful observation and an astute insight to the concept of time led me to believe that something was “amiss.” Sure enough, the tender finally announced to the “fleet” that there was a problem with not the automobile bridge but with the railroad bridge just on its other side, out of our view (this particular bridge opening required that both bridges open simultaneously, the narrow gap between the two leaving insufficient space for a kayak much less a yacht). The tender’s unwelcome message was enhanced by the presence of a US Coast Guard patrol boat, replete with .50 caliber machine guns mounted fore and aft, in position just in front of the bridge as if to say, “No Trespassing.”
After some time (I’m sure it was no more than 15 or 20 minutes but it felt like hours as I expertly avoided collision after collision with a bunch of sailors), the tender announced, “Top notch public servants, paid for by your tax dollars, have successfully repaired the antiquated yet intricate workings of the railroad bridge lifting mechanism and the bridges will open shortly. Thank you for allowing us to serve you today.” Well, I’m sure that’s what she meant but it came out more like, “The bridge is opening.” We passed through and sped off to make openings at other bridges before entering the Great Bridge Lock.
The Great Bridge Lock separates the southern branch of the Elizabeth River from the Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal. The purpose of the lock, depending on the citation you choose, may be: 1. to prevent fresh water (Canal) and salt water (Elizabeth River) from mixing, thereby destroying duck populations, 2. to allow barges to be raised and pass safely over shallow areas, or 3. to provide a navigational challenge to boaters traversing the ICW. I choose to believe the third scenario.
Gary, his Pavlovian Pee response apparently limited to bridges, was at the helm as we neared the lock. A healthy two knot current was pushing us toward the opening as the public servants manning the lock worked diligently to secure the vessels ahead of us to the port (left) and starboard (right) concrete walls of the lock; walls guaranteed to take a “bite” out of any fiberglass boat, the crew of which having neglected to deploy appropriate fenders (bumpers) prior to entry. Agu put down his beer and we scrambled to hang fenders off each side of the boat since we did not yet know to which side of the lock we would be directed. Gary, sensing the physical environment (current and lack of steerage) and zero guidance by the dedicated public servants, fell victim immediately to the nefarious clutches of the Aston-Jones Syndrome. [In his defense, it really was a silly way to operate the lock. They didn’t tell you squat other than a public announcement on channel 13, “Hang fenders on both sides of your boat and enter only if the light is green.” Gary was fighting to keep the Wolf off the starboard side of the lock as the water swept us inexorably toward certain and costly gel coat repair bills. His efforts were enhanced by the Wolf’s propensity to pull the stern to the left when put in reverse, apparently in an effort to enter the lock BACKWARDS. He did a great job of keeping us off.] In the end, we tied up safely after watching the half-million dollar yacht ahead of us hit the wall with gusto, its port quarter in need of some TLC.
The water was lowered about three feet and we zoomed out, our destination Coinjock, NC, where we had reservations for the night. We made our way through the Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal, down the North Landing River and zipped out into Currituck Sound. Warren was worthless during this entire time; he couldn’t steer for beans when motoring. We told him to stay near the stern, out of the way.
Currituck Sound is an expansive body of water giving the appearance of a sailor’s dream; protected, inshore, with wide areas of navigable waters. Um, au contraire, mon ami. The narrow cut through the Sound, providing, ostensibly, 12 feet of depth, is guarded on both sides by water in the 2-5 foot range. Since the Wolf draws 6 feet (if floating is desired), careful attention to the navigational aides is essential for a safe passage. The path is clearly marked by a series of green day marks sitting on 10 foot platforms down the port (left) side of the channel. Each mark has a number on it so you can readily determine your exact location by referring to a similarly enumerated mark on your paper/electronic chart.
Colonel Wolf, recently awarded membership in the “Order of the Locksmith,” did an admirable job of steering us safely (not aground) for most of the day. Our intent was to reach Coinjock before dark (you don’t “do” the ICW at night…most marks are unlit…most of the path is very, very narrow). Captain Danger, beer in hand, offered to relieve the Colonel and we concentrated on reaching our destination in an expeditious manner.
Heading across the sound we managed to remain afloat as we motored by each marker, our progress noted by the number on each, 107, 109, 111, 113, etc. Marker 113 represented a critical juncture in our trek as the channel was charted to make a slight right turn, aligning us with a very (very) narrow opening between two small islands through which we had to go. As we passed 113, I peered carefully through the binoculars for marker 115, the final marker in the sound, placed, ostensibly, to protect the unwary mariner from driving into shallow water. It was not there. Marker 115 was nowhere to be seen. The only marker we could find was red, number 116, about a quarter of a mile away, situated almost immediately on the shore of the island to starboard.
As I announced to the crew my inability to locate the critical navigational aid, Agu slowed the boat and the Wolf confirmed my assertions by burying her keel in the bottom, our forward progress reduced immediately to zero. I sprang below to check the electronic chart (we had a laptop running at all times in addition to paper charts) and confirmed our position on the port side of the channel in an area marked with a depth of 5 feet. I recommended turning the wheel to starboard and the application of throttle in a prodigious manner. Agu, temporarily eschewing his beer, did as instructed and we found ourselves once more afloat; for about three seconds at which time we struck the bottom again. We extricated ourselves again as I gave the setting sun a brief glance, our destination still five miles ahead.
[Let me explain what was happening here. We had no clear markers to show us the channel ahead. We were using the Wolf’s keel as a poor man’s forward looking sonar as we poked and prodded, looking for water sufficiently deep to allow us to continue. We weren’t having much luck.]
Agu managed to move to starboard and struck once more the bottom. This time, unlike our previous visits to terra firma, we were stuck firmly. We could not encourage the Wolf to move despite the copious application of engine power, rocking the boat, or, in Gary’s case, swearing like a longshoreman.
I looked forward and espied a small motorboat (20 feet or so) heading our way from between the islands ahead, our personal summit, as it were. Gary leapt below to raise the fellow on the radio. I laughed out loud, the chances of this guy listening to a radio while charging along at 30 knots were remote at best, and I began waving my arms in his direction. [Unfortunately, Gary is a scientist and the “common sense” approach is not always his forte. Really, despite my use of him as the anti-hero/Christ in this story, he’s one of the best friends I have in this world and a first class yachtsman. Readers should know that I love Dr. Aston-Jones like a brother.] The motorboat headed our way.
Good Samaritan: “Are you aground?”
Me: “Firmly.”
GS: “Want me to pull you off?”
Me: “Decidedly.”
GS: “Got a line?”
Me: “Definitely.”
GS: “Toss me a line and I’ll pull you off.”
This he did as he explained he had just pulled a 65 foot motor yacht off the bottom only an hour before. We attached a line to the bow and he managed to pull us back into the channel. As I retrieved the line, I noted our movement had once again abated. We had run aground AGAIN!
The Good Samaritan, bobbing about eight feet from us, explained that his depth sounder was showing 10 feet of water.
Me: “Can you pull us off again?”
GS: “Sure. Toss me a line.”
After removing ourselves, for the fourth time in fifteen minutes, from the bottom, I said, “Listen. We could do this all night but I’m sure you and your son have better things to do. How about if you LEAD us up to that cut ahead and we’ll just stay behind you?” He thought that was a great idea considering, I’m sure, he felt he was dealing with a bunch of rubes.
He did as promised and we arrived near that red mark without losing any more bottom paint. I shouted our thanks and waved him over to hand him $20 for his efforts. He wouldn’t hear of it. He jetted off in Saint Nicholas fashion, wishing us all a good night. [Truly, a remarkable display of selflessness.]
Arriving at the cut, we found a huge barge aground on the shores of the island to port, a massive tug boat, perpendicular to and its stern well out into the channel, pushing against the barge while the crew busied themselves with tying tow lines to the barge, hoping to pull it off the beach. The propeller wash from the tug presented a danger to us as it could have easily pushed us to the starboard side of the channel to find, once more, the bottom. But, it didn’t. Gary (having by now relieved at the helm Captain Danger, recently awarded the “Order of the Bottom”) drove expertly past and we made our way finally, as darkness settled in, to the dock at Coinjock, left to cogitate upon our predicament had not the Good Samaritan happened by.
Day Two was in the books.
