Tuesday, June 1, 2004
Little River, SC
38.51.44/78.37.22 1545 -  View Pictures

Spoke too soon about the hydraulic fluid cooling miracle I rendered. It was again up to 140 degrees and John Robinson of American Bow Thruster, the manufacturer, says to quit screwing around and get someone in to fix the problem before I burn out the seals in the hydraulic devices. So apparently he isn’t going to vote for me for ‘mechanic of the year’. No matter, I can do other things; run aground, dodge laden barges, bump into docks and other boats. I am not without my talents as a yacht Captain. We’re now at Cricket Cove Marina in Little River, SC, awaiting the arrival of Jack Ravinsky, locally reputed to be an excellent diesel mechanic, who, according to himself, is also competent to repair failed hydraulic cooling systems. I’m still certain that this is a minor problem so I do think he will be successful, especially with my assistance and advice. I now theorize that the impeller on the cooling pump must be shredded. I’m pretty sure a cooling pump has an impeller, doesn’t it?

1745 The cocktail is fast approaching and will probably arrive before John’s new best friend, Mr. Jack Ravinsky, “the mechanic competent to repair failed hydraulic systems”. I don’t know from which source I will find the most relief. Mr. Ravinsky or a glass of wine. This day has threatened to get the best of me. Although neither the Captain nor the crew (that would be Isabel) are pointing fingers it can not have escaped their notice that I kissed the bottom of Rock Garden Channel with our props. It certainly did not escape my notice that the Captain had arranged for another diver to be standing on the docks when we arrived here at Cricket Cove Marina. “Hey, don’t sweat it honey”, he said. “This is just a maintenance check . . . you know . . . to keep on top of things.” But I did sweat it because he always calls me “honey” when I have done something bad. Besides that, I think it is very inappropriate to call the Second Captain “honey”.

The diver found nothing unless one wishes to count a little rope that was twisted around one of the propellers and its shaft. It was a very thin rope and I was very widely relieved.

But still I could stand some more calming. It was very hairy piloting our way up the ICW today. I would have to say that it has been the most difficult part of this trip . . . by far the most difficult part. The chart reads, “Numerous rocks have been reported abutting the deep portion of the Intracostal Waterway Channel from Nixon Crossroads to Lat 33.42.51N/Lon 79.55.18W. Mariners should use extreme caution to avoid grounding in this area”. As it happens when we reached that field of rocks we were leading a line of boats, one of which was that 120’ charter boat and four others, none of which was more than 32’ in length and certainly none of which had a deeper draft than we did. It didn’t make me feel really comfortable. “Why”, I asked myself, “didn’t the little boats who travel much faster and whose small draft posed far less of a problem than we might possibly have, pass us?” Were they waiting for us to sweep the rocks out of the way or--worse still--to locate them with our props?” Probably. We kept to mid-channel as much as possible and watched for shoaling at bends and places where drainage ditches cut in. We kept an eye out for flotsam, snags, and trees that may have been toppled into the cut. We did not let ourselves be bullied too close to the edge of the channel when passing small boats coming from the opposite direction. And we did check ahead on channel 16 and 13 to see if there was any barge or tug traffic so that we could avoid having to pass them in a narrow part of this most worrisome part of the ICW that we have been on thus far. Receiving no answering communication we proceeded very cautiously forward like a mother duck leading all of the little ducklings, the small boats, and with the 120 foot honker, which I shall call the

Drake, bringing up the rear. Wouldn’t you know it? At the very most narrow part of the channel--with pilings on both sides of us--we encountered this absolutely huge barge being pushed by a tug and rapidly bearing down on us. We had but one choice and that was to start backing up as quickly as possible for their was no room to maneuver either for us or the tug who, of course, had the right away and couldn’t possibly come to a stop even if he wanted to. Then there was the problem of possibly backing into the ducklings and the drake who were right behind us. During this period we had no radio reception. Why I don’t know. Maybe it was because the antennas had been lowered when we went under a bridge and had not been raised back up again. We have always been able to hear the Coast Guard Station and to call bridges and marinas so the radio had not been a concern. Anyway there we were backing up as fast as we could back up--all of us--into an area called ROCK GARDEN which, I am sure, acquired its name for a reason, I was finally able to direct John over to a sandy area on his starboard side where we were momentarily grounded but at least the barge and tug swept by. I could have reached out and shaken hands with any one of the deckhands aboard the tug . . . “Thank you for sparing us, sirs”. The ducklings and the drake were spared also. I couldn’t see in what manner as we aboard the Mary Ann were too busy trying to avoid being permanently trapped in the sand but once the canal had widened out, all of them eventually passed us. I have never experienced such a feeling of helplessness and vulnerability while on the water. I hope I never again do. Where is my glass of wine?

Until next time . . . Captain Mary Ann

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Wednesday, June 2, 2004 0850
Little River, SC
38.51.44/78.37.22 1545 -  View Pictures

Well, the mystery of the overheated hydraulic system has been solved, but another mystery, a real one this time, has arisen to take its’ place. First, the hydraulic fluid is overheating because no water is flowing from the cooling pump through the heat exchanger. Many of you probably already had that figured out and were wondering how long it would take me to figure it out. But what you don’t know is why the water was not flowing; because the pump was full to the brim with salt water mussels! These little animals, about the size of one third of your little fingernail, somehow invade the cooling system and make themselves at home in the pipes. My cooling pump was completely stuffed full with them to the extent that only a dribble of water made it through their mass to the heat exchangers. The repair consists of vacuuming them out of the pump and lines and then we should be good to go. If you’re thinking that I suddenly got smart you would be wrong because Jack Ravinsky came aboard and quickly focused his attention on the cooling pump after tracing down the inlet and outlet lines, although even he was surprised at the mass of the little critters blocking the water flow. “Worst I’ve ever seen,” he opined, echoed by his assistant, Ken. Personally I thought that it was good news as I envisioned needing a couple of new pumps, rather than a simple vacuum job. Not at all sure what I’m supposed to do about making sure that the problem does not reoccur as checking the lines isn’t that easy, but I’ll figure it out. Incidentally, opening the two closed valves was exactly counterproductive as their function is to ensure that water flows to the hydraulic system when closed, but when open they allow less cooling water into the system thus causing the reservoir fluid to be warmer, as is useful in cold winter weather cruising when oil becomes thick and viscous.

The other item, and I got this from my new best friend, Jack Ravinsky, is that the three survivors of the airplane crash into the ICW the other day disappeared as soon as they got out of the water, and long before knowing the fate of the since discovered drowned pilot, their presumed friend. The airport was one quarter mile away from the crash site and the evidence is that the plane did not lose power as the props were folded back into the cowling which, as I am told, is indicative of crashing while they were under power and turning. Jack is a Search and Rescue guy and was called to the crash scene so he may have some straight dope. The investigators are looking for something connected to the Black Bikers rendezvous then being held at nearby Myrtle Beach. There was something in the neighborhood of 250,000 motorcycle dudes at that party so maybe they ran out of dope or something. Oh, yeah! Everybody knows that us bikers are big dopers. The truth is that there are so many old people at these biker gatherings that the sponsors generally offer an AARP discount on the price of admission. The only inhaling most of us do any more is on our portable oxygen bottles.

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Thursday, June 3, 2004
Topsail Island, North Carolina
34.23.16/77.38.26 2145 -  View Pictures

Has anyone ever heard of Topsail Island? None of us ever have, but it is a very pretty place, a new marina in a new subdivision, grassy knolls with ocean views. We’re in this small (for us) harbor tied to the inevitable gas dock for the night while a thunderstorm beats its’ way through the region. The rain hasn’t come yet, but it will and when it does it will be a year’s worth of Seattle rain in a few minutes. Between the bugs, the shallow water, and the weather I have decided you have to be tough to live out here!

Today was pretty successful in that we didn’t hit bottom once and the hydraulic system performed well and stayed cool. I thought that the stabilizer hydraulics reservoir was heating up now too, but apparently it is supposed to run at about 120 degrees, hotter than the thruster fluid. There are still some left over mussel shells lodged in the water wheel preventing it from turning. Maybe I can clean it out later. Both engines are sounding periodic alarms now, although not very seriously. The starboard engine DDC electronic controls say that the gear is not in neutral when we are underway, but who didn’t know that? A little alarm wire got torn loose by the last mechanics and has the system confused as to whether it is in gear or not. Duct tape did not fix the problem so a replacement part will meet us in Beaufort tomorrow. The other engine says something about ‘gear low voltage’. Now what the heck could that possibly refer to? Gear voltage? I asked Jack Ravinsky about it yesterday, but he said he didn’t have a good guess other than a loose wire. Doesn’t seem much of a problem anyway, probably another sensor malfunction. I like to blame everything on faulty sensors and pretend that there really isn’t any problem. Works for me.

We ran a long time today, made maybe a hundred miles, but slow going in the shallows. Quite a bit of traffic but few bridges had to be raised for us. In fact only two, but we had to wait almost an hour for an opening of the first one. As we went under the second bridge, a swing bridge, so called because they pivot on a center pedestal and swing perpendicular to the river, the bridge tender radioed that we could have made it under his 20 foot vertical bridge without an opening. He asked me our height and I told him 40 feet with large antennae up, which they are now, or 32 feet with large antennae folded, which they were until yesterday. “Well, Captain,” he said, “you better get out and measure those things again because you didn’t need an opening and we don’t like to open the bridges for pleasure craft that don’t need openings and … blah, blah, blah …” “Right, you bet, I’m going to crash into your stupid bridge with my nice electronic stuff,” I’m thinking. “You just open the bridge like every other bridge tender.” But I got curious. What if he was right? Gary Etchells and I had measured the height back in 2001 when we picked up the boat and it was 22 feet just to the first radar arch and another 7’1” from there to the top of the anchor light on the second arch, with both large and small antennae on top of that. So I pulled out the Profile and Arrangement page of the construction plans and measured the planned boat height; 22 feet from waterline to first arch, and 7’1” to top of anchor light! So 32 feet with large antennae down is pretty darn close as I didn’t climb up to the radar arches to measure the antennae, the shorter of which is about another foot and a half above the anchor light. I call that 32 feet for bridge clearance purposes. I guess the moral to this story is “Don’t pay any attention to bridge tenders, or the Coast Guard.”

I’m on the CGs case today because I have decided that the government is training them to speak Esperanto or something, but whatever language they are speaking they talk so rapidly and run their words together such that I seriously doubt that anyone to whom English is a second language can possibly understand them. They must have some little contest at the various CG Groups to see who can broadcast the most unintelligibly which, when taken with the plethora of imaginary dangers and crises they discover behind every call on channel 16, makes their work more a source of danger and misinformation than their avowed purpose of boating safety. I intend to petition the CG to put their operators through some kind of course in speaking clearly, distinctly, using all the syllables of each word, and in American English. I have no doubt, however, that it will not be possible to convince them to investigate prospective problems before announcing and thus creating them. I’m sure the operators get pretty bored most of the time answering requests for “… radio check, please.” Which brings me to my final point. I probably hear twelve to twenty calls every day from people wanting someone to tell them if their radios work, that is, requesting radio checks. Why is that? How many such calls do we hear in a whole summer cruising in the northwest? Fifteen, twenty, a hundred? Beats me.

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Friday, June 04, 2004
Beaufort, North Carolina
32.42.91/76.39.84 1845 -  View Pictures

We meant with some anxiety on the water today. Not the kind of anxiety that has anything to do with the failure of mechanical parts. I’ll leave that kind of reporting to Captain John who lives and breathes on dramas coming out of the engine room. I prefer to report on occurrences having to do with Mother Nature. Today she tried to deal us a blow and I mean that literally. We were about twenty miles out of Beaufort when the Coast Guard issued another one of their scary alerts. We were advised that thunder storms were predicted, tornados likely, and that winds of up to seventy miles an hour were expected. Oh yes . . . and one and a half inch hail stones would likely be pelting us. Vessels on the water were advised to seek harbor. I know that the sudden change in the weather occurred because our friends Janet and Steve are joining us here on the boat tomorrow. God doesn’t seem to like any of our friends. He sends disasters our way whenever we are expecting guests to board the boat.

John was on the Fly Bridge by himself when the Coast Guard warning came over the radio. He came flying downstairs and barked out and order to Isabel and me: “Snap to it girls! Secure for heavy weather. There is a big storm brewing and we are right in the middle of it . . . or soon will be!” Quickly Isabel and I buttoned down everything that could be buttoned down. Closing the mid ship sea door was what really increased the threat in my mind. We had never before sealed off the aft stateroom compartments. Once all of the storm preparations had been made there was nothing left for us to do but rely on our seamans knowledge: “Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue.” Our dreams were only to get there before we were sunk.

The storm never came. Or at least it didn’t come to us. But I never lose my respect for Mother Nature nor does anyone on this ship mess with her if we can possibly avoid it. She can be a real mean witch. I thought I heard her cackle as she blew past, “ I’ll get you my pretties and your little dog too!” Ha ha! She will never get the dog. Too bad for you, Mother Nature. This is not a dog boat.

On a less dramatic and more noble note, before the storm threatened we passed Camp LeJuene, a remote grass and tree covered chunk of land bigger I would guess than many counties. A prominent lighted sign told us that we were entering a firing range area. When exercises are taking place that sign and one at the other end of the exercise area display flashing lights and red flags. We saw no flashing lights or red flags but there was evidence aplenty that we were in military territory. Huge Marine helicopters suddenly appeared and flew in just above us and low over the boat. As they moved off to our starboard and climbed higher we watched them drop and raise rescue baskets. Then along side of us came landing barges full of Marines and carrying ominous looking machine guns on their sterns. The barges raced from our bow to our stern jumping and playing over our wake time and time again as if they were dolphins On the shore we saw many more landing barges lined up in the sand. It appeared they were getting ready to practice maneuvers. So we honked, shouted, gave our thumbs up sign, and Isabel and I blew them kisses. They blew back our kisses. God bless our Marines. May we all honor them for what they do for all of us and for our country.

Until next time . . . Captain Mary Ann

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Sunday, June 06, 2004
Belhaven, NC
River Forest Marina -  View Pictures

We left Beaufort in the morning without the guests that we had hoped to pick up there. Unfortunately, there was a major mix up about the pick up location. There are two cities of Beaufort. One is in South Carolina. The other is in North Carolina where we have spent the last few days. Our friends booked plane reservations that would take them to Beaufort, South Carolina, then tried to change them to North Carolina. It was too late and too bad for us. Janet is architect for the home we are building in Sun Valley and we were going to do some shop talk. Steve in an airline pilot and would have been a great fill in navigator. Perhaps we can pick them up later on our route to “wherever”.

Before we left Beaufort we visited the Old Burying Ground which is listed on The National Register of Historic Places. Known burials date back to the year 1709! I love walking through old grave yards, reading the inscriptions on the markers and wondering about the lives of the people who are buried there. In this case I didn’t have to wonder. There are handout sheets of information at the entrance of the burial ground that guide one through the grounds and tell about grave sites of special interest. Most fascinating was the site of a young girl who had been buried in a barrel of rum. The story is that she much wanted to see her homeland in England and was at last able to convince her father to let her accompany him on the sea passage he was to make. She was happy to see London but died on the voyage back and would have been buried at sea but for the promise her father had made to her mother which was to bring her back. The sheet of information did not tell whether the mother had said, “Dead or Alive”. In any case the father purchased a barrel of rum from the captain, put her inside to be preserved, and brought her back to Beaufort for burial. There is a photo of her grave with children’s toys on top.

Our departure from the city of Beaufort was somewhat lacking in dignity. We left with me screaming and Isabel still standing on the docks. Captain John said that we had embarrassed ourselves in front of the whole town . . . “we” meaning Isabel and I. He gave us a terrible dressing down which we in no way deserved. We are just now beginning to speak to him again.

This day on the water was often a breath holding time: breath holding for both its beauty and the navigational difficulties encountered. Our route was the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal, a heavily wooded area green with thick trees and swamp grass. The canal is very narrow and all along the way we encountered fallen trees, their huge network of roots pointing to our vessel accusingly. It is said that “power boats dragging huge wakes can damage the banks. Each year more trees are undermined and topple into the water”. So power boaters are tree killers? It doesn’t escape me that the powerboats get blamed for everything bad that happens to our environment, probably even drought and famine.

This powerboat did not leave any wake for we crept along almost in idle hoping to keep ourselves off the bottom and away from the snags and tree trunks we knew were lurking just below the surface of the water. Out of the canal the Alligator River widens out into what almost looks like a sea. But one must not be fooled into complacency. Any deviation from the charted route can result in prop damage, grounding or as the Waterway Guide says, “Worse”. It may have been a day when we saw more of the chart plotter than we did the scenery. We were tired and relieved when at the end of the day we finally pulled into the River Forest Marina at Belhaven.

At every stop there is something very unusual and interesting to investigate. River Forest Marina here at Belhaven provided us with a special treat. Adjacent to the Marina and back a bit on a wide expanse of grass was a charming inn. Built as a home in 1899, it was purchased 65 years ago and converted to a business by the family who now operate the marina. When we went ashore and had an after dinner drink at the inn’s well stocked bar, the bar mistress gave us a history on the inn as well as keys to two of the rental bedrooms. She thought we might like to see how the “better half” was living a little more than a hundred years ago. The bedrooms, each with their own private bath, were as big as small condominiums and I thought much more inviting with their grand fireplaces and antique furniture. The town, the barkeep admitted, does not have the grandness of the inn but it is a place where everyone knows everyone and everyone’s business. “We are a very close group, we people who live in this village”, she told us. She certainly did not mean “close” in proximity for the population of Belhaven is only two thousand and that two thousand is spread over about twenty five square miles. In this very close town there are two drinking establishments, or I should say two places where a drink can be bought because the Inn, with its upscale rooms for rent and its “I was here first history” is much more than a drinking establishment. It is the town’s statement of class. The plebian and more functionally necessary part of the town includes a grocery store, bank, several small restaurants, the new library, and one stop light. I don’t know why a stop light is necessary. There seem to be no cars on the street. I like this town more than many I have visited on this trip. It takes me back to where I came from . . . a place where, unless you invent it yourself, the nearest entertainment is two hours away. And you are lucky if your mother knows how to sew because the new dress store is also two hours away . . . on very bad roads.

Soon we will be leaving the rural country that we have been seeing so much of along our ICW route. A month ago we said good bye to the magnificent Florida mansions and still later to the gracious cities of Georgia, South and North Carolina. It is really quite wonderful. There is something for everyone on a trip like this where both the scenery and the style of lives seem to constantly change. I am so glad to be here on the motor yacht, Mary Ann, now on this day at this hour together with my good friends, John and Isabel. It is truly an adventure. I hope it never ends.

Until next time . . . Captain Mary Ann

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Monday, June 07, 2004
Midway Marina, Coinjock, NC
36/21.09/75.56.86 1730 -  View Pictures

I’m sorry to report that I have no boat operating problems to report. For some reason everything is working properly, quietly, and at the proper temperature. It seems like a miracle, but it is really just the end of the lengthy break in period. We have almost 1200 hours on the boat now, so it’s high time that things began to work right. I’m really enjoying the absence of stress!

But the absence of one kind of stress doesn’t mean the absence of all kinds of stress. Today, for example, we grounded twice way the heck out in the middle of some big bay or swamp with nothing resembling civilization to be seen in any direction. If you want to witness ‘foxhole converts’ first hand you should see us praying that the boat won’t stick fast in the mud and goo that comprises the bottom of these canals, lakes, and rivers. So far so good on that front, and actually the waterways are getting easier to navigate as we move farther north.

Tomorrow we will reach Norfolk, Virginia, which marks the northern end of the ICW, at least according to the purists. Others say that the ICW extends from Key West to someplace north of New York City. I guess the difference of opinion is based on whether you include Chesapeake Bay, Delaware Bay, and their connecting canal in the route. Personally, I’m grateful to have gotten this far without getting stuck someplace. The tow boats do a thriving business here all the way up and down the ICW. Tow Boats US and Sea Tow are the big companies and they are always being called by distressed boaters. Not cheap either at $10 per linear foot for a tow job. Free towing for members at a price of $120 per year per member. I joined shortly after we left Florida. Seemed cheap since I had struck ground so many times even by that early portion of this trip and had heard on the VHF how popular their service is. Miraculously the boat undercarriage and props have suffered no damage from groundings so far.

Of course you know that it had to happen sooner or later that I would have to provide my associate Captain, Mary Ann, and First Mate, Isabel, with some instruction on line handling and fenders. Since you all know them both you know how lightening fast they are on their feet, but nevertheless I felt compelled to quietly remind them that when the boat is untied it will usually drift out to sea with, or without, the line handlers on board. “Wait, wait,” hollered Isabel from the docks as she finished her stroll from one end of the dock to the other after releasing the stern line, “I’m not aboard yet.” “John, go back and get Isabel,” said Captain Mary Ann. “Well, why in hell isn’t she aboard? This isn’t a damn outboard motorboat,” I thought, remembering how they had played ‘…throw the line…’ so many times with neither thrower nor catcher appearing to qualify for the handicapped Special Olympics. They were somewhat chastised, at least I assumed that was their attitude as neither spoke to me the rest of the day. Today, however, was a new day except that again Isabel was standing on the dock as I was swinging into the channel to drive away. “Now what,” I wondered, as I returned to pick her up, promising myself that I wouldn’t say anything, very much, hardly. “You locked her out,” said my Dear Partner. “Locked her out? Wonder how I did that?” I realized that I had locked the side gate that we had been using for ingress and egress, never thinking that Isabel is so small she couldn’t reach over the rail to let herself in. Well, you know how it goes. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. I tried not to speak to the ladies after they were finished chewing on me, but I wasn’t successful in that either. I am such a loser some times.

But this is an interesting trip. Miles and miles of nothing but waterway without habitations or anything else. Few boats to disturb the tranquility, just an occasional tug pushing a barge to remind you that it’s still the United States and not the land of the ‘African Queen.’

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Tuesday, June 8, 2004
Norfolk, Virginia
Waterside Marina -  View Pictures

Mission accomplished! .Tonight Captain John, First Mate Isabel, and I will certainly have cause for celebration. When we docked here today at the Waterside Marina in Norfolk, Virginia the three of us could say with relief and a bit of pride that from our start at Palm Beach, Florida, we have successfully navigated one thousand twenty-two miles of the connected canals, bays, sounds, creeks, and rivers, the major distance of the inland water highway that run from Boston to Brownsville, Texas.

When we first talked about going up the Intracoastal Waterway we had our reservations. We had listened to seamen gossip about “the ditch” beginning to fill up with silt and the ever increasing bank shoaling that was making passage for a large boat almost impossible in some areas. Then there was the talk about fixed bridges: “No way is that honker boat of yours gonna git under most of ‘em”. We heard from some very experienced Captains who told us that while the route was very interesting, sometimes heavy traffic, the wait for bridge openings, and having to constantly observe very low speed limits made the route painfully slow, and “yes” it was true that the Waterway bottom and your boat would have to be very friendly because they would often have to be in very close contact with each other. We had our concerns about finding places to anchor or moor the boat. How close were the marinas to each other? Would we have to park in someone’s front yard? Would we have to be at the helm all night? Would the traffic constricted by narrow boundaries be intimidating?

So we began our research. The positive out weighed the negative. The fact that our route, for the most part, would be in verry protected waters was a big plus. We liked the idea that often we would need no binoculars to enjoy a constantly changing landscape. It was intriguing that the Waterway would take us into ports where the history of our country actually began. Finally, it was there! Why not do it? There were a lot of bridges, it was true. Sixty-seven of them to be exact. But those that were fixed we could get under. The rest would open for us . . . some on demand . . . some on the hour . . . some on the half hour . . . a few twice a day . . . or never if there were big winds. Big winds seemed improbable and since we are never in a hurry, the restrictive speed limits and the wait for bridges didn’t seem important. As for the shallow bottom, it was mostly mud. Mud is friendly.

So a good decision was made and another chapter of our sea adventures ends. Tonight we toast the Mary Ann which has finally decided to behave herself. Tomorrow begins a new chapter: The Chesapeake!

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Thursday, June 10, 2004
At anchor Goose Creek, Chesapeake Bay
38.07.82/76.28.40 1645 -  View Pictures

Only our second anchorage on this trip. Back on the Intracoastal it was practically impossible to find a spot with deep enough water and room to swing at anchor so we were marina bound almost every day. Here on Chesapeake Bay there is lots of room to swing and this particular anchorage has 8.4’ of water at low tide and an impressive 1.5’ of tide change. It’s like some of those Mexican tides we encountered, so slight as to be negligible. A nice thing about the tides and currents here in the USA is that with the updated version of Nobeltec navigational software I have tides and currents on the chart plotter for every day of the rest of my life for every spot within any reasonable distance of a Coast Guard tide or current station. It even has a little icon of a boat showing by means of an arrow the direction of the current as it hits your boat. Very slick! We have become very reliant on electronic plotters and software, but the old dead reckoning skills are still useful from time to time. You never know when the electron gods are going to frown on your computers, and they do so at the least convenient moments, so even though I have four computers and three GPS position locating devices aboard I still tend to think in terms of dead reckoning positions.

The Potomac River is not what I expected. I expected something that looked like a river. This river looks for all of me exactly like a bay, and so do most of the rest of the rivers on the Chesapeake that we have seen; the York, Piscataway, and the whatever. I haven’t determined how salty the water is in the rivers, but I’m guessing that it is pretty salty, not fresh. Water is a lot colder here at 78 degrees, but still pretty warm. We haven’t been swimming at all on this trip, but may do so here as I do not think there are any alligators or snakes around, at least I haven’t seen any.

The bay is shallow, extending to 50-60 feet out in the middle but much of it in the 30 foot range. Fishermen in large boats dragging nets through the water catching what, I do not know but oysters and crabs are big on the restaurant bill of fare here. They feature ‘flounder’ on the restaurant menus here which, although I have never tried one, sounds like something humans probably should not eat; like roughy and that ‘red something’ fish that once were called ‘scrap fish’.

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Friday, June 11, 2004
Annapolis, Maryland
38.58.73/78.29.06 1805 -  View Pictures

Well, if you wanted to really see a parking job you should have been here to watch me massacre the water trying to get into this slip today. It was pretty embarrassing, but, what the heck, I got a lot of docking practice. I think it was five unsuccessful attempts before I managed to wiggle into my assigned space between two mega size vessels with full crews on deck chortling at my difficulties. I could tell you that the cross between a downstream current and an upstream 20 knot wind made a difference, but if you could watch me looking away and avoiding your eyes as I said it you would know I was lying. It was brain death, I admit it. I was lucky to get in at all and if the dock attendant hadn’t given me instructions I probably wouldn’t have ever gotten parked. I ended up heading for a portside slip at a 45 degree angle against the wind, starboard throttle only, and blowing the bow to starboard with the bow thrusters as the wind pushed the stern to port to a straight in approach. Actually it worked pretty well once the dock attendant told me what to do. I have no pride. I’m working on humility, but don’t hold your breath.

Our approach to this bay that contains the state capitol of Maryland was also an adventure. Of course the water shoaled up as we approached the Severne River, on which Annapolis is located, from our course up the center of Chesapeake Bay so I was a little on my guard, but then we were confronted with an armada of sails coming out of the river, seemingly all in a bunch and headed for me as they had apparently just made their starting mark. I’m frantically studying my charts to find how far I can deviate from what appeared to be the main channel, but I was too slow and before you know it we were back in the 3-4 foot water that has become so familiar on this trip. Luckily we managed to step aside and let all the traffic pass and ease back into the channel without grounding, but it wasn’t due to my good seamanship. I did get a hail from the Committee Boat as it passed however. You know about the Committee Boat, don’t you? That’s the power boat with all of the lawyers aboard who attend the sailboat races to pick up clients who wish to protest losing the race. In sailing it’s not who finishes first, it’s who has the best legal counsel. This city claims to be the sail racing capitol of the United States, and from what we saw yesterday that might well be the case! For sure there is plenty of wind as it blew a steady 20 knots all day and pushed a lot of rain along with it, perfect wx to sit out and drive a sailboat.

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June 13, 2004
St. Michaels, Maryland
Eastern shore--Chesapeake Bay
St. Michaels Marina and Hotel -  View Pictures

When we came into St. Michaels we thought that we had managed to get the very best deal in town: free moorage at a one hundred twenty-five foot dock right in front of the St. Michaels Hotel which seemed to be at the center of all of the waterfront action. “Just come on in,” said the person who answered our request for dock space. “We won’t even be charging you. The dock is still under construction and just sitting here empty. The crane that is usually at the space is not here on the week ends.”

John was especially congenial to the two persons who were standing on the dock to help us tie us. A gift of free moorage gives one a wonderful first impression of the town and its people. Alas. The best things in life are not always free. It was a great moorage but when we heard the words, “Stop in at the front desk of the hotel to pay up”, we knew that we had been had been had. Especially when he added, “I’m really sorry that we can’t provide you with any electricity or cable. But we’re under construction, you know. Oh, and by the way, get yourselves out of here by early in the morning unless you want to get run over by the crane. Our guy is going to want his space back when he arrives for work tomorrow at eight.”

To be fair, it was probably a different man and probably only a petty clerk that answered our phone request for moorage. The man on the dock seemed to be the person in charge and he would be smart enough to know that there the Mary Ann was not a local boat and could be charged the special rip off rate reserved for transient tourists who would not be passing his way again. Besides, as rates go, it really was not a rip off . . . only ninety bucks and that is the smallest amount we have paid for moorage on this entire voyage! Also we took advantage of the extra benefits we got with our moorage and helped ourselves to five apples that were sitting in a dish at the hotel desk. They were Washington apples.

We had decided on making St. Michaels our next port of call when we were in Annapolis. John had become fast friends with the gentleman in the slip immediately adjacent to us. We had entertained him immensely on the day before with our lengthy and unusual method of docking. I guess he wished to do something special for us in return so he told us of one of his most favorite stop off places: “St. Michaels! You must go there!” he said enthusiastically. “It has probably one of the best restaurants in the world. The Crab Claw. I must warn you though that the restaurant is always full. You will need to make reservations ahead of time. Mention my name if you have trouble getting in.”

Dining in yet another fine restaurant two nights in a row would be an unexpected treat for our new guests, Kathy and Gary Etchells. Only last night, using our Seattle Yacht Club reciprocity, the five of us had enjoyed an excellent meal at the Annapolis Yacht Club and, although we are always trying one or another of the quaint little eating establishments that we come upon in our walking tours, the fare on board the Mary Ann has been more than competitive . . . thanks to Isabel’s efforts. We all looked forward to taking advantage of our friend’s excellent recommendation and to sampling some local fare.

We made our Crab Claw reservations shortly after noon when we were leaving the docks at Annapolis. The restaurant said they could give us a late seating at eight o’clock. As a precaution against losing our reservations we called for the water taxi to pick us early and we arrived fifteen minutes before our scheduled seating. We found, as our friend had told us would be the case, that the place was jammed with people both seated and standing in line. At our appointed time we were shown to a table. It was not the window table we had requested but one in the center of the room. We did not care. We were there, after all, to enjoy the fine cuisine . . . not the scenery.

Glancing around I noted that many of the tables had piled at their center high stacks of whole boiled crabs which were rather yellow brown in color. There were no center plates to hold the crabs or individual plates in front of the persons eating them. Instead, beside each diner was a large brown paper sack.

“What is that sack for?” I asked a little girl who was dining to my right side.

“I throw the crab guts in there,” she replied.

“You mean the guts are still in the crabs? The crabs have not been cleaned?”

“You are supposed to clean your own crab”, the rather elderly person whom I took to be the little girl’s grandfather said in disgust.

“I am having a hamburger”, Gary Etchells butted in.

“We don’t serve hamburgers here”, said the waitress who had just arrived on the scene. “This is a crab restaurant.”

“Do you serve crab cakes?” Gary’s wife Kathy asked very sweetly.

“When in Rome do as the Romans do,” I sagely advised.

Shortly thereafter twelve rock type crabs were thrown whole on the table along with some wooden mallets and the paper bags were set along side of each chair. I was first to pick up my mallet. I began hammering away on the crabs back. Immediately the waitress appeared again. “You are not from this part of the country, are you?” she said without even trying to conceal her smile. “I think that you all need a lesson in crab cleaning.”

“We know about crabs,” Gary snapped. “We are from the Seattle area.”

“Oh yeah. You got those Alaskan crabs up there, those really big stringy animals,” said the grandfather at the next table. “They don’t have much taste do they?” By then he had become totally immersed in both our eating problems and the conversation at our table.”

Using his most haughty tone Gary came back at the grandfather, “We eat Dungeness crab in Seattle, not Alaska crab.”

“Do they have guts?” the little girl asked.

Meanwhile the waitress, a very sweet young thing, had knelt down at our table and was whipping the crab apart. In a few seconds she had pried its back off and was pulling off the gills. “This part you don’t eat,” she explained. “It’s poison.” She finished the cleaning by digging into the crab’s interior with her fingers and pulling out that yellow stuff that is familiar to all of us crab catchers in the Pacific Northwest. The yellow stuff that didn’t stick to her fingers joined the gills which were already in the paper bag. “To get you started I am going to clean one crab for each of you”, she generously announced. “Then you can all get started on your own.” It was then that John asked if soft shelled crabs featured on the menu were cleaned in advance of their serving. They were.

Before the soft shelled crabs arrived we had each eaten the body of the one cleaned boiled crab. Then we sat there. Except for Isabel, who polished off another six of them, none of us made an attempt to clean another crab. For the one small mouthful that a crab provided it hardly seemed worth the effort. Besides they tasted like mildew and there were no finger bowls on the table to get rid of the yellow stuff that we were sure to collect. We even missed the fun of using the mallets that was provided for leg cracking. Except for Isabel none of us bothered with them because the largest of the crab legs were smaller than the little finger on a lady’s hand. The crab legs unceremoniously joined the gills and the guts in the paper bags by our chair legs.

Finally the soft shelled crabs arrived. They were served on a platter rather than the table top because they had been prepared in some kind of a sauce. I think maybe it was marmalade or jam because it was something very sweet. Everyone had one bite of the soft shells. That was it. Then we divided the potato and tomato that accompanied Kathy’s crab cakes and the side dish of French fries that came with the soft shelled crabs. We all agreed, except for Isabel, that it wad the worst meal that we had ever suffered.

When in Rome do as the Romans do . . . but for one time only . . . just for the adventure of it. Then return to what you really are. In this case it would be “civilized”.

Until next time . . . Captain Mary

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Monday June l4, 2004
Oxford, Maryland
Mears Yacht Haven Marina -  View Pictures

As towns go old Oxford is definitely vintage. In its glory during the 17th and 18th centuries it was a major port, important as a center for boat building and tobacco-shipping. Charm has replaced glory and now the port is only important to cruising sailboats and yachts who seek refuge from boat bumping crowds and a moorage throbbing with noisy activity.

We enjoyed a quiet walk through a quiet town. Only one car disturbed our peaceful sojourn and it seemed quite inappropriate that this vessel should be belching out so much noise. However, I suppose a chattering and sputtering was to be expected as the car in keeping with the town was also of a vintage age.

Oxford seemed like a town where the locals would immediately recognize a person on the street as a stranger. Since we did not, for a half hour or more, run into any persons on the street we were not strangers. At last two ladies came walking along the sidewalk. We moved over onto the grass to let them pass. Kathy said that she smiled at them “and they didn’t smile back”. So now we were indeed strangers.

We passed several restaurants, Mathilda’s and The Mill Street Grill on Mill Street, but seeing no one patronizing them we strolled on. Across from the ferry landing saw the Robert Morris Inn which was recommended by the dock man as a good place to have dinner. He said that it was a renowned hotel and restaurant which both boaters and RV vagabonds made a week-end destination. Our experience at the Crab Claw was too recent an experience. You might say we were still struggling with indigestible memories. The word “renowned” was warning enough. We all agreed that it would be fool hardy to book reservations at another “spot” favored by the locals so soon after our last dining disaster. Instead we opted for ice cream cones at the general store. A delicious experience! Still later we enjoyed dinner by Isabel on the stern deck. Another delicious experience.

Until next time . . . Captain Mary Ann

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Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Cambridge, MD, Hyatt Regency Marina
38.33.72/76.02.54 1645 -  View Pictures

We’re here at a very fancy and brand new marina at a Hyatt Regency, and except for a lone small sailboat , we are the sole occupants. The dock attendant says this is the first marina that Hyatt has ever owned, a dubious proposition, but I could well imagine it might be true because the power pedestals are about 150 feet apart, with no 100 amp outlets, and the dock water is even further spaced. The water inside the marina is mostly 6 to 7 feet deep, which leaves little to the imagination for a boat with a 6 ½ foot draft. Despite its’ obvious inadequacies the moorage is an outrageous $2.75/lf, of which overcharge I made the marina office aware. But it’s quite pretty here and seems rather prosperous judging from the homes lining the waterfront. Unfortunately none of us have the slightest idea of where we are in the world other than on a river that flows into Chesapeake Bay somewhere on the eastern shore of the State of Maryland. It is hard to credit the Chamber of Commerce’ claim that this was a major shipping center for two hundred years because it seems so very far away from anything and everything. It seems to me like it would have made more sense to ship from the western shore rather than from down here on this peninsula, but what do I know? This waterway is not unique, in fact it seems no different from every other small river and creek we have explored since arriving here, shallow and meandering, lined by low lying shores and headlands.

I don’t know if I have ever mentioned how very few big powerboats we have seen, not just on the ICW, but here in the Chesapeake as well. This is sailboat nirvana obviously as there are more than hundreds of them out and about every day of the week. Apparently the wind blows here pretty steadily so it is the sport ‘de rigueur’ here for the sailors and who could blame them? Since they are generally a pretty nice bunch of folks I have been trying hard to keep my monstrous wake at a little distance, although when they are underway and under sail I cannot see what difference it makes other than to keep Mary Ann smiling. We slow for ducks and seagulls too.

It is very warm and humid here today so the air conditioning is running full blast to keep the boat salon and lower deck cool and pleasant. The pilothouse is an inferno, as always, due to its’ preponderance of glass, but as a whole we are comfortably awaiting the cocktail hour, soon to be sounded at two bells of the afternoon watch. We have Gary and Kathy’s boat gift, a two piece chiming clock and barometer, mounted in the pilothouse so everyone has learned a few nautical features to spice up our bar talk when we go out.

The autopilot remote control unit that lives on the flybridge quit today. It now only shops the last two digits of whatever course you hope you are on, the left side being covered by a rectangular black box of unknown origin. I spoke to Simrad in Lynnwood, Washington, and they told me I needed a new control unit or could have the present unit repaired if I brought it in to their Lynnwood facility. But it doesn’t look like something I can take apart without wire cutters so I will have to leave it for someone back in Ft Lauderdale to take out and ship to Simrad. I would probably end up ruining the whole unit if I disassemble it myself. But things do break on boats so this is a small matter as we still have a fully functioning autopilot in the wheelhouse. And, wonder of wonders, nothing is leaking in the engine room, all components are operating properly, and our fuel consumption is only 32 gallons per hour at 1500 RPM, which is driving us along at 12 knots. I’m very pleased with that, and with the boat in general these days.

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Thursday, June 17, 2004
Harbour View Marina, Baltimore, MD
39.16.54/76.36.11 1605 -  View Pictures

We’re moored at a large marina in downtown Baltimore and right at the moment there is a large thunder and lightening storm going on overhead, presumably as a bit of a crescendo conclusion to this cruise. Baltimore is as far as we’re going since we did not hear anything very promising about coming into New York harbor or the East River.

Getting here from Cambridge was interesting, however, as two Coast Guard boats loaded with kids carrying Glock 9s and a drug sniffing dog pulled us over for a “… random inspection of all vessels…”. Of course Gary pointed out to them that if it was an inspection of all boats it wasn’t exactly random so we immediately got off on the wrong foot. They were polite and courteous but really did nothing more than Dick Benson does as a CG Auxilliary Officer back at Meydenbauer. I did note, however, that as soon as they saw our CG 100 Ton Master’s licenses they quit asking questions and just wanted to chat, which was fortunate because I couldn’t remember where I had put my vessel documents. We did not have any violations though, so it turned out to be all right, if a waste of our time and the government’s money. I do not have a problem with enhanced security, but this “… random…” inspection program has no discernable purpose other than to entertain young CG personnel so far as I can determine. It was the first time I have ever been boarded since I have been involved in boating though, so I guess it isn’t too much of a burden. At least they were American military and not Guatemalan or something.

This trip has been an adventure of a different sort, somewhat challenging on occasion due to the shallow water and numerous boats in close quarters, but one that most anyone would enjoy. Chesapeake Bay is huge and a pretty nice cruising area once you become accustomed to the shallows and shoals. A lot of small harbors and anchorages up various creeks and rivers, many quite uninhabited. I’m not sure what we will do next, but the boat goes back to Fort Lauderdale under a licensed Captain tomorrow as we catch a plane for Seattle. We’ll come down to the Lauderdale boat show in October to check things out and, assuming the boat hasn’t sold, head back for Seattle after we beat the Huskies in late November. I’m raising the price of the boat so it isn’t foreseeable that it will sell. No point in selling it now that we have all of the bugs worked out. I may put the boat on a boat ferry, but probably won’t, so look for us in late November as we try to figure out how to get home. Goodbye for now.

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