Part two of the delivery from St. Augustine to Norfolk promises to downplay Captain D’s nudity and remains fecal free. Others may disagree about the choices made in conditions of high stress at sea but this Tadventure© installment is chock-a-block with mirth (and occasional mayhem).
As you will no doubt recall from Part 1, I had just learned that Captain Danger had practically destroyed the kitchen in my brother’s house while cooking provisions for our trip when the doorbell rang and he answered same in a semi-nude state. The ringer was my brother’s realtor, “Gretchen” (compare/contrast: “Rachel”) and I was more than concerned that she had some anxious son of a sultan waiting in the car, cash in hand [the real estate market in Florida was, as one might put it, “in the tank”]. I immediately placed calls to “Gretchen” and my brother to make sure that I had not, inadvertently, put the kibosh on a certain sale of the property. Then, I forgot about the whole thing; what more could one man do?
“Pete,” having “tasted” each of “Agu’s” culinary creations, assumed a post-prandial position on a nearby comfy couch as “Agu” and I bagged the food he had prepared and together we cleaned the kitchen and cookware so to leave the kitchen in a state that comported with generally accepted “this house is on the market” condition. Then we all headed to our beds for some rest before a pre-dawn reveille.
I awoke without benefit of an alarm around 4:00 AM, prepared a pot of coffee, and did my best not to mask the fact that the Captain was awake – to no avail; the crew slept soundly. We had to depart very early because the amount of water in my brother’s slip was decidedly lacking (we had to use the winches to pull the boat into the slip when we had arrived the previous fall); heading out at or near high tide was critical. Our first leg was from Palm Coast to St. Augustine, motoring up the intercoastal waterway, where we were to pick up Driver before heading offshore for Norfolk.
[Fast Forward: assume we got all the provisions, gear, crew on aboard, the house was cleaned to an impeccable state, and we got out of the water-challenged slip without incident (except for “Pete’s” coffee cup that he left on top of a piling as we pulled away). Also assume that we made our way safely north, without running aground, to St. Augustine and anchored on the north side of the Bridge of Lions, the last obstacle between us and the Atlantic Ocean.]
The plan at that point was to pick up Driver at the City Marina, his schedule and commitments forcing him to arrive a day later than the rest of the crew (for some unfathomable reason, he considered attending his daughter’s high school graduation a higher priority than hopping onboard with the rest of us in a timely fashion). [Background: my initial crewing plans called for the usual band of miscreants: Captain Danger, Colonel Wolf (aka “The Professor”), and my brother-in-law, Driver, to join me on this trek. The Colonel, always thinking about himself, obligated to interview a potential faculty member and was calendarly constrained. As noted previously, Driver opted to attend some “family” related celebration. Captain Danger replied, of course, when asked to help out, “Where and what time do you need me?” (Captain Danger, in line with his proclivity to consume copious quantities of hops and barley, is the very personification of stout.) Because of my own work schedule, and in order to allow sufficient leeway (another clever nautical double entendre) for the vagaries of weather and sea, the window during which this entire escapade had to occur, was fixed. As a result, Driver could only make it a day later than was optimal and the Colonel was, like the number five, right out. In his stead, I invited “Pete” to come along (as noted previously, his acceptance spoke volumes about his common sense).I add that the Colonel indicated that he could go if we went first to Charleston, there to drop him off, and then continued to Norfolk. I quickly poo-poo’d that plan. As it turned out, the professorial profferings were prophetic.]
We busied ourselves making ready the yacht for her offshore passage. “Agu” had a beer, “Pete” had a nap, and I did all the work. As the time approached for Driver’s arrival, I hopped in the dinghy and attached its outboard engine, the only option we had to get Driver from land to boat.
[Had I bothered to regale you with the details of the previous fall’s delivery escapade, you would know that, unlike just about every other major maritime location, St. Augustine did not have a water taxi service (a small boat or boats, running to and fro, providing rides from yacht to shore). We strongly suspected the reason for this lack of common courtesy was due, in no small measure, to the fact that the St. Augustine City Marina charged $10/day to allow you to “park” your dinghy at their dock (they did provide a little sticker for the fee; it falls off almost instantly since water and glue rarely mix effectively).]
After affixing the engine to the dinghy, “Pete,” rudely awaken from his seemingly never ending slumber, handed me the gas tank and I proceeded to start the engine. After the normal two yanks on the starter cord, the engine fired up and immediately sputtered to a non-running state. Repeated pulls on the cord met with no joy. I called for some tools, removed the carburetor, and gave the thing the twice over finding nothing amiss. Reassembling the unit, I yanked the starter cord without satisfaction until my arm and shoulder began to hemorrhage from within. Noting the peculiar “milky” appearance of the fuel dripping out of the carb, I suspected the fuel, carefully stored seven months earlier (I even put a fuel additive, “Sta-bil”, in the tank to preserve the fuel), was “bad.”With no options at our disposal, other than hoisting anchor, waiting for the Bridge of Lions to open (only on the half hour), picking up Driver at the marina, and then waiting another half hour to go back through the bridge, I called Driver and instructed him to “bum a ride” from the marina docks once he got to town. “Pete” went back to sleep, “Agu” had a beer.
We had been, as would be expected, monitoring closely the weather forecast to determine exactly when we should depart St. Augustine. The initial plan was to head out as soon as Driver got onboard, making our way through the channel markers with waning daylight sufficient to illuminate them. The prevailing conditions for the previous two days were winds from the northeast (directly from our intended direction of travel). More troubling was the sea state (winds drive seas so the seas would be also directly ahead). Having experienced the “fun” of steep seas on the nose (see: Dire Wolf Heads South, Beaufort departure), I made the command decision that we would delay our departure until the wee hours of the next day. The “new and improved” plan had an immediate upside: the boat and crew (in that order) would not start a passage by being beat to death; morale undashed. The downside was that strong northeast winds were forecast to hit Cape Hatteras (aka, “The Graveyard of the Atlantic”) coincidently with our planned arrival.
[Here are a few places, in no particular order, you never want to be: divorce court, state prison, in a northerly flowing Gulf Stream near Cape Hatteras in a strong northeasterly wind (the wind against the current creates some “exciting” and “challenging” conditions).]
The prospect of an immediate departure no longer imminent, Captain Danger prepared our traditional “arrival” beverage (we had, after all, “arrived” at St. Augustine after an uneventful and non-death defying passage from Palm Coast), the Gin and Tonic, of which we freely partook. We shared high hopes that Driver would be successful in his hitchhiking, especially as our ability to hoist anchor and go fetch him diminished in proportion to each offer to “refresh” our drinks.
At some point (which, owing to my personal intake of celebratory libations, eludes me), Driver called and said he had reached the City Marina docks. I congratulated him on his manly efforts and reiterated my suggestion that he “find a ride” (I didn’t mention that failing to “find a ride” would result in another timely suggestion, to wit: “find a hotel”). Five minutes later, much to everyone’s relief, Driver called and said he had located suitable transportation. Naturally, we celebrated his welcome news, any pretense of having to hoist anchor put finally to rest, by refreshing our drinks.
Driver called back and said to prepare for his arrival upon a small red runabout. I looked off in the distance and espied such a vessel moving slowly in our direction. I was, admittedly, a bit confused as the craft seemed to be carrying at least seven occupants, none of whom resembled my brother-in-law. As it got closer, I realized the reason I couldn’t see him was because he was perched precariously on the aft end of the tiny little boat, the only place that he and his gear would fit.The boat made its way to us and we proceeded to unload Driver and his stuff (including six bags of ice, an offshore fishing rod/reel, two large duffel bags, and a five foot long gaff). The runabout was filled to the limit with six adults and a small child. We thanked the captain profusely (how coherent we were remains debatable), Driver snuck some money in the console as a way to express our appreciation (the captain wouldn’t accept the money directly; surreptitious means were called for), and climbed aboard, a traditional arrival drink placed immediately in his hands. The crew was complete.
