Homeward Bound!

I have not even bothered to write any entries for the past six days because boredom does not make an exciting subject matter. For the most part, Deltaville, where I have abandoned Peter and Mantra, has been dismal, damp and dreary. Last Saturday, the sun managed to be out all day, and we enjoyed some time kayaking and visiting with fellow Sundeer owners to compare notes. That day there was a glorious sunset and good live music from across the water, but otherwise, there has been nothing to write home about, as the saying goes. Except for Saturday, every other day started out foggy, with moisture covering every surface until mid-afternoon, when the sun usually made an appearance for a few hours before clouds began rolling in before sunset.

Last Friday, we moved to Dozier's Regatta Point Marina, which has a local yachting club and transient services. While the marina, which is in itself has lovely grounds and docks as well as clean and modern bath facilities and laundry, it is at the end of one of them many long lanes sprouting off the main road through the area. While it offers Internet service and is working to improve it, it did not work well, even on the verandah of the main building.

Deltaville is the middle of nowhere, seemingly isolated from civilization around it. We had better cell phone and Internet service in third world countries! The rivers, creeks and bays all have homes or marinas or boatyards on their shores, so there are no natural areas to explore. There are certainly no cultural attractions within walking or biking distance. Historically significant places such as Yorktown are at least an hour's drive away.

While the marina provides vans to use for free, they cannot go outside of Deltaville. This amenity did allow us to go to the grocery store, where provisioning for the short-term was not difficult, and there is an ACE Hardware store and a West Marine as well as other marina-related businesses, so Peter should be able to find most everything he needs as he remains in that god-forsaken place for a few weeks to work on the boat (without having to be bothered by my misery).

Our 26th wedding anniversary is tomorrow, but I simply could not stay another day there! We both agree that we will be a happier married couple if I am not in Deltaville!

Deltaville, One of My Least Favorite Places

Sunday, May 17 through Thursday, May 21

On Sunday, we sailed from Bryant’s Bay to Fishing Bay at the mouth of the Piankatank River on the south side of Deltaville, Virginia. We started out with totally overcast skies but with enough wind to sail at 4 to 5 knots. As the afternoon progressed, the skies cleared gradually. By 4 p.m., the sun was shining, but it did not last. By 6 p.m., the cloud cover was 100%, and that was the last we saw of the sun. 

Dreary, damp and dismal have been the days at Deltaville. I really did not want to come here, but this is Peter’s choice for getting work and repairs done on the boat. The last time we were here, in August of 2006, on our previous boat Epicurus, it was insufferably hot and humid, and the family’s best memory of that time is of me sitting on the countertop in the galley with my feet in the freezer. (It was not on but still had some residual coolness.) Deltaville anointed itself “The Boating Capital of the Chesapeake Bay.” I suggest a more appropriate appellation would be the boat storage and repair capital of the Chesapeake. It is not a destination for people! It is in the back of beyond, far removed from civilization. 

Today, in choppy seas, with white caps on the unappealing, diluted olive drab surface of the water, we motored around the end of the peninsula to the mouth of the Rappahannock River, arriving after noon at Norview Marina to talk with the folks at Zimmerman Marine about jobs Peter would like to have done on the boat. The one bar of cell service we had disappeared as we approached so I got dropped from the family Zoom meeting about summer vacation plans. Apparently, there is only Verizon service here, and it is not strong. At least there is Wi-Fi, and after we docked I was able to re-connect.

I had carefully collected and bagged all of our recyclable materials since we left Charleston, South Carolina, but recycling has not yet been embraced here in this backwater of the world. So all of that went in the trash. 

Calling Deltaville a town would be a real stretch. Really it is a stretch of two-lane road with deep drainage ditches on either side, meandering through a rural area dotted with marine related businesses, a couple of gas stations, a Dollar General store, and a rather small grocery store which does not carry fresh produce. For that, you have to go to the outdoor produce stand, a concept that has its charms, I guess, if you are not trying to provision your boat for several weeks or months. None of these businesses are nearby. We walked along the two-lane road for a mile just to reach the Citgo station, where we purchased ice cream bars for a treat, milk and some Diet Coke. (Everyone else going in to the convenience store was buying cigarettes.)

The four days we spent at anchor in Fishing Bay were uneventful. The water was always choppy, the skies were always dark, and the blustery wind was blowing at 15-20 knots all the time except when it would gust, usually from a different direction, at 25-30 knots. The wind in the rigging at this velocity is not a comforting sound. At times, the boat was rocking so much that we felt like drunken sailors even though we were not drinking.

Tomorrow (I hope!) we will get estimates from the other boatyard we are considering. It is supposed to rain all day, however. (It is raining now.) No sunshine is expected until at least Monday, and we need to hose off the sails and let them dry before we can bring them down and stow them. I am beginning to feel trapped here!

The highlight of the last few days has been this barn swallow (plenty of barns around here) on our dock line:

In the Chesapeake!

We are heading to Deltaville this morning. Here are the entries for the last couple of days:

Friday, May 15

The anchor was on deck by shortly after noon yesterday. With winds under 10 knots, we motor sailed until we were able to turn the engine off at 7 p.m. and sail a broad reach on the starboard tack. Around midnight, we made our way into the Gulf Stream, which helped to propel us along. 

As the night sky lightened with the approaching dawn, the wind dropped from the night-time 16-22 knots to 8-10 knots from the southwest, and we were forced to use the engine again. Peter rigged up the spinnaker and we used it when we could, as the wind was fickle. At 8:30 a.m., the spinnaker was flying. We socked it at 9:50 a.m. and turned on the engine, then unfurled it again at noon when the wind picked up to 12 knots, cutting the engine. It was back to a socked spinnaker and engine power at 2:20 p.m., and then we reversed this at 3:45 p.m., gliding along with minimal noise with 14 knots of wind from the SSE. At 5:10 p.m., the wind was stretching the limits of the spinnaker and we brought it down and put it away. With the genoa back up, we were going 6-8 knots in 15-20 knots of wind on a deep broad reach. It was a delightful sail.

Slipping through the green water of the Chesapeake Bay, we headed northwest to the western Virginia shore of the bay, where we anchored at 1:20 a.m. in Bryant’s Bay, a part of the larger Mobjack Bay, dodging crab pot buoys. We only caught one; it was impossible to avoid them. We did not realize how many there were until the next morning when we could see them all around us.

Saturday, May 16

We fell into bed around 2 a.m.; Peter really needed the rest as he had done virtually all of the night watch the night before. (My hero!) We awoke to sunny skies and warm temperatures. We could go out on deck in only our nightclothes, without wool socks and sweaters!

We did various tasks on the boat. Peter pointed out to me the varnish swipes on the white paint inside the boxes for the deck hatches, mentioning that he would need to do something about that. This slopping job of painting (completed before we owned the boat) had not escaped my attention; in fact, two years ago, I had meticulously removed varnish from around the wood trim that was stuck to the headliner. The person who did the job was sloppy and too lazy or inattentive to wipe off the varnish that overlapped onto the headliner and the box while it was still wet. It was obvious that he had used the technique of taping to avoid overpainting because there was a blemish-free strip above the wood and then varnish streaks above the tape line. It makes you wonder!

Before . . .

And after my hard work

I volunteered to do the job and spent a few hours with my trusty paring knife slowly scraping off the excess without damaging the white paint. I tried using a heavy razor blade, but it just didn’t work for me. 

After completing this job, I moved on to the second task of the day, cutting Peter’s hair. It has been nearly four months since either of us have had a haircut. My hair has made it through an awkward stage and it is now at a length that I like, so I will probably not cut it short again for a while. Peter, on the other hand, was looking a bit shaggy. I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. I hadn’t cut his hair since we lived on Epicurus (2005-08); there seems to be a bit less of it now.

Peter's haircut

Now that the days and nights do not seem to be stretching out in front of us without end, now that we are in the Chesapeake and near our final destination for this part of our sailing adventures, we are more motivated to get boat jobs done, so there was no time for games today. Bedtime will be early.

Setting off for the Chesapeake through the Ship Graveyard of the Atlantic (Cape Hattaras)

Wednesday, May 13

After I researched on the Internet the noise made by the shrimp, Peter insisted that it was also a means of communicating for mates. I scoffed at the idea. Surely they are not eating and having sex at the same time! Reluctantly, I must admit that I was wrong and Peter was right. (This has only happened about half of dozen times in our marriage as best as I can remember!) I did additional research this morning, and, indeed, the pop-gun sound is also used for mating. We were also interested to learn these one to two-inch shrimp mate for life (which is only a few years long)! 

When I went up on deck this morning after awaking, the very first thing I saw in the lustrous flat calm blue water, quite close to our boat, was the huge head of a loggerhead turtle. What a way to start the day! We spotted them several more times over the hours, but their surfacing was always too brief to allow time for taking photographs. 

Morning at Cape Lookout Bight

It was another lazy day in this lovely, unspoiled paradise. Peter paddled around to visit a couple other boats before lunch. After our meal, we went to shore and walked over the dunes, where the sand was hot on our feet, to reach the Onslow Bay side of the north-south spit that protects Lookout Bight from the west. The beach was quite wide, and we crossed various types of sand to reach the water where small waves gently lapped the edge of the land. It was interesting to feel the different textures against our soles. 

There were lots of shells in places, although maybe not as many as we found on the beaches inside the bight. Most of them were old or broken, but in addition to the ones we noticed yesterday, we found pieces of shark’s eye (the shell, not the anatomical part of a fish) and Scotch bonnets. We kept hoping to find them intact but were unsuccessful in our search.

On the water, many people were in small boats fishing or just enjoying being on the water, but we were the only people on the west-facing beach. This made the birds happy. We saw brown pelicans; laughing gulls and other gulls; common terns, royal terns and Caspian terns; Wilson’s plovers, piping plovers and black-bellied plovers; loons, sandpipers; ruddy turnstones, and other birds. I would love to take a National Park ranger-led walk to learn more about the birds and the turtles and the shells.

Gulls and terns

Plovers, gulls and terns

Plover

Royal terns

As we sit at the saloon table this evening playing Scrabble, the snapping shrimp are busy eating and mating all around us.

Thursday, May 14

This is it! Around noon, we will begin our last leg of our journey to the Chesapeake. We hope to be able to sail in comfortable conditions most of the way to Deltaville, Virginia, but we will see.

I woke up as the sky was lightening this morning and went up on deck to watch the sunrise, something I do not often see. Actually, I never saw the sun rise because it is extremely overcast, but the pink streaks of light on the eastern horizon were spectacular. Also, loggerhead turtles were popping up here and there throughout the large bight, but they are just too quick to allow me to photograph them. 

Peak of the sunrise color show

The sun lost behind the clouds

Peter was still in bed, so I went back to the warmth under the covers, although it is not as chilly today as it has been. He got up and I fell back to sleep, arising again at 9 a.m. Now, the boat is tidied, the sandwiches are made with peanut butter and jelly and with egg salad, the snacks are in the pilot house, and we appear to be ready to haul up the anchor after a small lunch of soup.

A quick glimpse of the loggerhead turtle

Cape Lookout National Seashore, North Carolina

It's now Wednesday, May 13, and here are the latest daily posts. I will add more photos later, but right now the signal is too weak and I don't have the patience to wait for uploads.

Saturday, May 9

We hadn’t seen dolphins for a while, but they were busy near our boat today, working cooperatively and with vigor, circling and corralling some fish for their afternoon meal. We occasionally see solitary loggerhead turtles briefly poking their heads above the surface of the mud-colored water. 

Bald Eagle

At 3 p.m., we raised anchor and went back through the ditch, spotting bald eagles again as well as snowy egrets and other birds. At 4:30, we anchored east of Cat Island to be ready to set sail in the morning for Cape Lookout. There were light winds from the north and the water was calm. Before dinner, we launched our ever-ready orange kayak at slack tide and paddled to the sandy beach. On board Mantra, we usually have on wool socks and sweaters. (I have been wearing mine over my nightgown for the last couple of days because it is just easier and more comfortable.) But the warm clothes are discarded for swimsuit and t-shirts for exploration. On the beach, we walked between the high and low tide line. The receding tide had deposited not only shells but numerous large brown-hued jellies. Their translucent bells revealed the internal structures. Some were larger than Peter’s hand. In places, there were patches of oozy brown-black mud on the sand. I tested the consistency with my foot, which slowly sank into the muck and stuck to my toes and the sole.

8-inch jelly on the beach

Wind-swept beach on Cat Island in Winyah Bay

Leaving my prints with the birds

As we prepare for bed, we are still not sure if we will leave at dawn or wait for more wind in the afternoon.

Sunday, May 10 (Mother’s Day)

Peter, the captain, somehow manages to arrange celebrations of special days such as Mother’s Day, my birthday and our anniversary with true loving care and attention to what I most enjoy—not! Otherwise a perfect husband, he seems to forget that I really, really do not like night passages because they are so damn boring, but on this Mother’s Day, we raised anchor as the sun rose on the eastern horizon. It was flat calm; the north wind hardly registered on the gauge.

Sunrise, Winyah Bay

Dragonfly along for the ride

All day, we kept waiting for the predicted wind in vain. We tried various configurations of main and genoa, but they only pulled in the intermittent gusts. The headsail snapped like a whip when these occurred. We had to resign ourselves to motoring, with canvas only up for stability in the small waves. Peter should have taken a nap or two in order to be ready to do most of the watch time at night, but he kept hoping that at any moment the wind would fill in and we would need to turn of the droning engine and set sail.

Sunset at sea

At 9 p.m., after I had taken numerous rests in our warm bed to relieve the boredom, not because I was tired, Peter finally decided to lie down at 9 p.m. after the wind picked up to 10 knots and we were sailing at nearly 6 knots of speed on a broad reach, starboard tack. Only an hour later, I had to wake him up, because the wind was fitful and I couldn’t keep the sails full. (Yes, I could have made an executive decision, but that is not the way we do things!) 

The fickle wind forced us to restart the engine and take in the genoa. We put three reefs in the main because it was only for stability. The ride was not the most comfortable. The waves were small, but they were coming at us from two directions with only three second intervals. I did one more short watch, and then I was done for the night.

Here is how I try to approach night watches at the beginning:

Sherri trying to look happy and alert

Without the sails to monitor, it is beyond tedious. There were no other boats to be seen. I sat at the top of the companionway with earbuds and my iTunes, singing along to some favorite old songs. My attempts to amuse myself are ultimately futile. This photo expresses my true joy after an agonizing, mind-numbing long time—not hours but actually only 45 minutes—of night watch: 

Please let me go to bed!!!

Peter took the rest of the night. By daybreak on Monday, the wind had picked up to 18 knots and we were able to sail again, alternating between wing-in-wing and deep broad reach, averaging 7.5 knots of speed. Still, the seas, although only four to five feet, were uncomfortable. Finally, after tacking and struggling, we made it to Cape Lookout Bight in North Carolina, one of our favorite anchoring spots on the east coast. We anchored in seven meters of water behind the western sand dunes south of another dozen boats seeking shelter in this scenic place. The sunlight brightened the windswept dunes, but Peter needed to rest, so we put off exploration.

Dunes at Cape Lookout National Seashore

While Peter slept, I cleaned. We expect to be leaving the boat in a couple of weeks, and I always like to leave it clean and then clean it when I return! I cleaned the cabinet doors in the galley and then moved on to the saloon, where I took everything off shelves and thoroughly cleaned all the horizontal surfaces as well as the head liner. Then I pulled off all the seat cushions and backs and wiped down under them. Three hours later, I had a feeling of accomplishment, and Peter woke up.

We gave some thought to kayaking to shore, but the wind was increasing and waves were developing and the temperature was dropping, so we postponed until tomorrow. The rest of the day was spent in usual ways: having an afternoon snack, playing a game of cards on deck, watching the sun set in shades of yellow and orange, playing a fierce game of Scrabble (in which I made two bingos and we had a combined score of 800), and having a light supper of soup before bed. The northwest, cold wind was howling by then, sustained at 25 knots with gusts to 30. With confidence in our ground tackle, we settled into bed, a hot water bottle at our feet.

Tuesday, May 12

My feet, in wool socks, are on top of the hot water bottle. The temperature is only in the mid-fifties, but that’s rather cold for indoor space. This hot water bottle is very useful. I hugged it to my chest last night as I stood on deck in my nightgown and sweatshirt, the cold wind flying and small waves slapping against the hull as we watched another boat dragging anchor and getting closer and closer to us. 

Just before we dropped off to sleep, around midnight, Peter asked me if I thought our anchor would hold. I said I was sure it would, and he agreed, but he decided it would be prudent to make sure all the other boats were holding. To his horror, when he went up on deck, he saw another sailboat drifting toward us. He tried to hail them on the VHF radio, but they did not respond. He took our 800,000 candle-power light up and flashed it all around their boat, which must have gotten their attention, because a couple was soon up on deck with their running lights and their engine turned on as well as their foredeck lights. Staying low in the wind, the woman scrambled to the bow (without a life jacket!). Meanwhile, Peter had turned on our engine to be able to maneuver if necessary. Then he got a fender out of the forepeak to use to cushion the blow if they did hit us, although with the high winds it would have done little. Pitching and yawing on the waves, they came alongside our port bow, probably only about 50 feet away, before they turned away toward the lee shore. We watched as they struggled in the wind and waves and then became grounded, their mast at a 15-20 degree angle. Fortunately, they were able to get into deeper water again; the tide was high, and they would have been in serious trouble had they been stuck as the tide went down four or five feet in the night. They motored away safely and anchored much closer to the entrance to the bight, far away from us. That was certainly a bit of excitement! It occurred to me that we should refer to this anchorage as Cape LOOOOK-OUT!

Boats at anchor in Cape Lookout Bight

The wind has been calm today although the temperature is lower than yesterday. I slept late after the previous night’s drama. I am now at the stage where I am trying to use up the fresh food and work toward emptying the refrigerator before we put the boat on the hard, so I used up some onions, yellow peppers, tomatoes and carrots to make a lentil and rice dish for lunch. Afterwards, we exchanged our warm clothes for our swimsuits. Brrrrr! I decided to wear a sweatshirt; Peter wore his polar fleece and we packed jackets and Peter’s beanie in the drybag. 

It was actually warmer at the surface level of the water, and paddling warmed us up. It was a short trip to the beach. Once there, we were protected from the breeze by the large grass covered and partially exposed dunes rising to the west. We walked for about two or three hours along the beach. Cape Lookout National Seashore is a treasure. The tides leave behind a vast array of shells in addition to jellies. The ones that are not brightly colored range from coal black to lunar white, with a multitude of shades on the black to white spectrum, with finishes from matte to pearly. And then there are ones that are rust red, lemon yellow, ochre, salmon pink, burnt orange and dozens of shades of brown. The surface patterns and shell shapes are fascinating. On the surfaces, there may be raised ridges, knobs like knuckles, or spikes. Colors may be arranged in stripes, speckles, spirals or gradations. The shells may be almost flat or splayed or spiral. In size, some shells are tiny while we also found some as big as our hands. We started picking up lovely specimens to keep but we soon realized that we could easily fill a couple of buckets with beauties so we limited ourselves to one or two of each type. There were intact oysters, mussels, clams, scallops, cockles, angel wings, dosinia, lion’s paws, and lettered olives but our prize is a lightning whelk in amazingly good shape. (There were many that were old or broken.) 

Shells in the shallow water by the beach

Jelly on the beach

Colorful shells on the beach

Weathered remains of the carapace of a loggerhead turtle

There are also lots of wonderful birds: white ibis, great blue herons, laughing gulls with their red beaks and legs, and various sandpipers, including the ruddy turnstone. 

White ibises

Around 5 p.m., we returned to Mantra and put on warm clothing again. We played a game of chess as we enjoyed afternoon beverages and chips and queso. I lost, of course, even though Peter let me take back imprudent moves. I am sure I am smart enough to actually be competitive in chess but the game just does not excite my interest. Peter really enjoys it. Perhaps he can get Katya to play with him when we get home.

The sunset was pastel this evening, compared to the flashy display of bright warm colors yesterday evening. The snapping (or pistol) shrimp are busy in the water, tap-tap-tapping. These crustaceans are about an inch long. One of their claws is much bigger than the other. By forcefully and quickly closing their claws, they produce a short burst of sound (measured as high as 210 decibels) which stuns their prey, making them easy pickings. They are nocturnal feeders and must fill up in a few hours because the noise always ceases sometime in the middle of the night.

Tom Yawkey Wildlife Center

We have been anchored by the Tom Yawkey Wildlife Center, a contiguous collection of islands and waterways established for research on Winyah Bay. Fish are jumping, but I don't know if the cotton is high. Here are the entries for the last couple days.

Wednesday, May 6 (My mom's birthday)

Just after I published the last entry, the wind changed and we became acutely aware of how malodorous the emissions from the paper factory really are. The sulfurous stench arising from using various compounds to process wood pulp for kraft paper is indeed overwhelming. Fortunately, the wind shifted again after a few minutes and the full-on olfactory assault abated, but a faint miasma persisted throughout the night as the drone of the factory, like the sound of a mosquito by your ear—but a mosquito that you can’t swat away or kill—continued, punctuated by occasional loud clangs and another sound like gravel being poured from a dump truck. Needless to say, the anchorage was not idyllic in any sense.

Our goal was to leave the area as soon as possible, but first we needed provisions. After breakfast, we kayaked over to the city dock of Georgetown with our reusable grocery bags and then walked past some lovely old homes until we reached the rather abrupt end of the arboreal historic district and discovered the golden arches! I went in to McDonald’s and purchased a Diet Coke (because I prefer fountain sodas), and then we walked two more blocks, cutting through empty parking lots, to reach the Piggly Wiggly, a southern grocery chain store. Actually, the history is quite interesting. Piggly Wiggly was the first self-service grocery store. The first location was opened in 1916 in Memphis, Tennessee, The custom before this innovation in shopping was for customers to give a list to a clerk, who then collected your items for you. Black and white photographs of the original store show that people, both women and men, all fashionably dressed, entered through a turnstile and then followed the maze-like aisles, with pyramid stacks of canned goods in the middle of them, politely staying in line and carrying their few items in their arms as they made their way back to the front. There, a clerk at a check-out counter tallied their purchases and collected their money before they exited. Piggly Wiggly is credited not only with creating self-service shopping but with giving rise to impulse shopping and to an increase in product packaging aimed at brand recognition. The retail model was so successful that franchises opened all over the southeast of the U.S. 

Piggly Wiggly is a smaller supermarket than I am used to, but we were able to find everything we needed, including 2-liter bottles of Diet Coke and fresh produce. Peter purchased a southern meal of fried shrimp, macaroni and cheese and cooked collard greens, which, to his surprise, came with a cup of iced tea, not the kind he usually drinks but the southern version, which is overly sweetened (unless you are used to it). Outside the store, Peter tried to summon a Lyft or Uber ride, but there was no response on the apps. Luckily, we had five sturdy reusable bags and a backpack, so we loaded the groceries into them and set off to walk the mile back to the dock. On the way, we paused to put down the load and rest our shoulders when we came to an historic market in front of a nineteenth century house that was being totally renovated. The contractor came out and chatted with us, sharing some of its history. 

Pastel home in Georgetown

Home behind wrought iron fence

We had thought that Peter might have to make a couple of runs with the groceries from the dock to Mantra, but we were able to load everything onboard, with bags between our legs, and paddle back using improper but non-splashing strokes. I quickly stowed the food while Peter prepared for departure. We could not wait to get away from the stink. Perhaps we should have, because it was low tide and coming up on a full moon. We attempted passage through the shipping channel on the opposite side of an island from town and the recreational channel, but it is not used regularly, and we got stuck a couple of times until we turned around, after being contacted by a local by VHF radio and advised to use the other channel. There is a bar separating the channel into the town docks and anchorage from the ICW, and it was tricky finding our way across it, but we made it into deeper water. 

Two hours later, having passed through a straight man-made canal, the type of Army Corps of Engineers’ construction that give the ICW the nickname “The Ditch,” we found a well-protected, tranquil anchorage in Duck Creek, with no buildings or other boats in sight. The view over verdant marshes is only interrupted by stands of trees. Lately, the sunsets have not been as spectacular because the round ball of fire simply disappears without fanfare behind the dense woods. Even though the ditch-like part of the ICW was not as lovely as its natural meandering waterways, it did afford close sighting of majestic bald eagles in flight and on perches high in the trees. As I watched one of them with my binoculars, he carefully watched us going by, his bold white head slowly turning to track our progress. 

The wind became gusty tonight, registering as high as 27 knots, but other than the sound of the wind in the rigging, it is quiet here.

Thursday, May 7

The morning was chilly, necessitating layers and wool socks. However, the temperature rose into the low 70’s by mid-afternoon and the direct sunlight was warm, so I changed to a swimsuit to do just a little bit of spiffing up of metal on the stern of the boat, particularly the swim ladder and the supports for the life raft. Three and a half hours later, I had applied polish and vigorously rubbed every stanchion, cleat and turnbuckle as well as the support structure for the bimini and solar panels and the chain plate (which required hanging over the toe rail) and then followed my tracks on the deck, up one side of the 56-foot hull and down the other, buffing everything to a bright shine. (This would have looked good on the dock in Charleston, although it would not in any way meet the standards of the megayachts.) 

Throughout the day, dozens of swallows had amused us skimming over the surface of the water, lifting up toward the heavens and swooping down from above, acrobatic in their movements. As the sun began to descend in the west, unseen owls began communicating with each other and continued past the time we went to bed. (I probably could have identified by the pattern of their hooting, but I did not bother.) The air was still, and the full moon obscured the brightness of most of the stars in the clear sky. The placid surface of the water glistened in the lunar light. 

Friday, May 8

I woke up very late, not having slept well (perhaps because I had trouble keeping warm but was loath to get out of bed to fill my hot water bottle). The wind is strong and gusty again and the skies are overcast. We are remaining in this anchorage at least through tonight until calmer conditions prevail. Eventually, we will make it to the Chesapeake!

Georgetown, South Carolina

We are now anchored by Georgetown. I have four bars on my phone, and the hotspot works, so here are the post for the last few days. (The hotspot actually has been functional since we returned to the States; I just didn't realize that it was only not an option outside the country.)

Sunday, May 3

Unusually, I was awake to watch the sky brighten into a brilliant, cloudless blue. We cast off the dock at 7 a.m. and before 8 we were sailing with the main with no reefs and the genoa on a port tack. As we exited the harbor, the flat water became gently rolling waves with no whitecaps. The wind was light, so we doused the genoa, hoisted the blue and red spinnaker and sailed a deep broad reach. There was barely enough wind for the spinnaker, but we did not need the engine, so we were happy. By early afternoon, the wind increased to 10 to 15 knots, and we changed out the spinnaker for the genoa; we were able to slice through the Atlantic waters at just over 6 knots on a deep broad reach. An hour later, we changed tactics and set the sails wing in wing, increasing our speed to 7 knots. We made much better time than we anticipated. Turning into the channel for Winyah Bay, South Caroline (still!), maneuvering to a beam reach, we flew up the inlet at 9 to 12 knots! By 5:30 p.m., we were anchored in the broad bay just northeast of Cat Island, with views of marshes backed by stands of trees which block the wind at this calm anchorage. 

A couple other boats also were anchored here, having also sailed up from Charleston today. The normal custom is to socialize with others around sunset, but the pandemic has forced us all to be inhospitable, so we remain isolated on our boats and make contact by radio. One of Peter’s pleasures in boating is meeting and getting to know other boaters, so this is frustrating for him. After a cup of tea, he set off in the kayak to visit the people on the other two sailboats, enjoying chats with them from his place at the surface of the water and their places on the decks of their boats. 

On the way back to our boat, he spotted an alligator’s head sticking out of the marsh where the water was lapping against the millions of closely packed green reeds that seem to form an unvarying barricade from a distance but harbor an abundance of lifeforms. Why is it that he only encounters alligators while on his own? I would love to see one up close.

After dinner and a game of cribbage, Peter went to bed, tired from an exhilarating day of sailing (made more so by the race-like aspect of traveling near other boats heading the same way). He went to bed, but I stayed up for a while, fascinated by the sound of the water. Depending on which way we are lying against the current, it changes. Sometimes it sounds like happy children splashing water against the side of a bathtub. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can imagine I am sitting quite close to a babbling brook. When the intensity increases (although the movement of the boat remains barely perceptible), the water seems to be continuously thrashing about, sounding like a washing machine on the agitating cycle selected for heavy soil when you open the lid on an older appliance to check that the clothes or linens are completely, totally immersed and that there is enough detergent for frothy suds. Newer, energy-efficient, environmentally friendly, water-saving machines do not make this sound. And you cannot just open the lid; now, when you push start, the lid locks to protect you from certain dismemberment if, for some silly reason, you thrust your hand or even your forearm into the tub. Heaven forbid that a child should decide to explore this fascinating moving environment. It is amazing that so many of us survived the perils of childhood without all the safety features now available or required. (Personally, I never put locks on the toilet lids when Matthew was little. We took our chances!)

Sunset, Winyah Bay

Monday, May 4

It was bathing suit weather today, with temperatures in the eighties. This morning was dedicated to making a large pot of bean and vegetables soup, cleaning the bathroom and the floors, and washing the sheets in our little, quiet machine and hanging them out to dry on the lifelines in the bright sunshine and mild breeze, which dried them quite quickly. While I was working, Peter was busy with his binoculars looking for alligators; he kept track of two along the shore.

In the heat of the early afternoon, before lunch, we set off on an alligator expedition. The current was running out at a couple of knots, so we paddled upstream to a marshy island, where we saw the first of our alligators. We then made our way across the current to Cat Island, past the remains of a dock on which sat, even spaced, at least a dozen cormorants enjoying the sunshine. Our goal was start at the upstream point and just drift along the bank, sneaking up on the stealthy gators. In this manner, we encountered them. The small ones were brown like the color of the water, which resembles a weak cup of coffee with milk that has been left sitting all day. The larger ones were glistening black, easier to spot. As we approached them, they watched us warily and then, at a certain point, without any apparent body movement, sank beneath the surface, the snout being the last thing to be seen. By waiting patiently, we discovered that they often do not relocate and eventually their heads rise up noiselessly in the same spot. The last and largest one we saw was in the open water between us and Mantra, but, of course, alligators are not aggressive with people unless provoked. 

Dragonfly that hitched a ride as we kayaked

Cormorants respecting social distancing

Small alligator 

Another alligator

A bigger alligator

An alligator cruising the waters between us in the kayak and our boat

That was our adventure for the day and the rest of it passed quietly. Peter took a long nap while I edited photos and read. Then we played Scrabble up on deck until the bugs drove us inside. 

After all the tasks (if one could call them that) of the day are done and we get ready for bed, our senses become more attuned to sound. Unlike last night, there were no splashing sounds. The boat was aligned with both the wind and the downstream, two-knot current. It took us a while to determine that the sustained resonance was the sound of the water flowing through the links of the heavy anchor chain and being transmitted up the snubber and over the roller to reverberate in the hull. There are so many little things to observe while living a life of ease on a boat.

We continue to make our way slowly north. We need a window of a couple of days of favorable wind and sea states to go out around the North Carolina capes and into the Chesapeake Bay (a two day sail), and this is not in the forecast for the foreseeable future. At times I am anxious to get the boat on the hard and get home to California, but mostly I am appreciating that our somewhat unique situation allows us to travel and explore unspoiled areas of the Atlantic coast (not to mention Charleston, which I loved) while most people must stay at home because of the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Although I am not far from towns and cities, I seem far removed from human suffering. Contentedly, I admire the sunsets, marvel at the expansive universe at night, delight in the wildlife, explore natural surroundings and pleasant city streets, and while away the hours in mostly unproductive activity, wondering if the value of leisure has its limits. Perhaps I have exceeded them.

Still, I feel great distress about the plight of the general public. The pandemic has resulted in the loss of so much life, the disruption of routines and economic chaos. Behind the numbers lie untold grief and suffering. People die without the comfort of their family and friends being nearby. These people struggle to deal with their normal feelings of loss as well as their inability to be there for those they care about. As we walked past a large hospital in Charleston, I couldn’t help but notice the empty, closed Ronald McDonald House across the street. With sorrow, I thought of those children with serious or acute medical issues in the NICU’s, ICU’s and other sections of the hospital whose parents and family cannot visit them, and about those mothers and fathers and grandparents and siblings who cannot be physically nearby yet yearn to be so.

Across the world, loving, close-knit but extended families are separated. Meanwhile, the members of families in abusive homes are virtually trapped inside with verbally or physically abusive spouses, parents or children whose inability to deal with frustration and lack of control can only be exasperated by their confinement. A sharp increase in the number of calls to hotlines and other support systems indicates the plight of these victims.

I fret about students whose schools have been closed for the months or even the remainder of the academic year. Those with good access to the Internet and technology have been managing to participate online, but what has happened to children whose homes do not have reliable electronic connectivity or whose do not have parents to support them as they attempt to increase their knowledge and skills without teachers there to guide them? As a library volunteer, I have seen how much that invaluable place of community is used by students to meet their needs not just for books but for technology and support. With libraries closed, the needs of these children as well as adults are not being met. And in places such as the U.S., how are those children faring who relied on school breakfast and lunch programs for their basic nutrition? Are they starving?

What is it like for children and adults who did not even have a home before this crisis? I have seen homeless people huddled together in their makeshift beds on cold nights in parks, in underpasses, in doorways. Social distancing is not really a possibility as they continue to endeavor to survive in their marginal situations. Trash cans and dumpsters, which unfortunately are sometimes their source of food, sit empty behind restaurants and bars. 

I have great sympathy for those whose means of income are no longer available to them, and I realize that for many of them, economic recovery will be a mighty challenge. However, I worry even more for those who were already living in areas of extreme poverty, famine or social injustice. The countries of the developed world are fighting for the health and lives of their citizens and the well-being of their societies, and, although these are not unlimited and perhaps not always well-managed, financial and medical resources are available to these governments to deal with the pandemic. What happens when responsible and responsive leadership is not there to rise to the occasion? For so much of the population, there are inadequate health care and sanitation resources, and the money to help people is just not available to the public (although the ruling class may be living in luxury). There are statistics and there is political analysis, but in the end, people in some parts of the world—not just a part of a community but every single member--are suffering and perishing not directly from COVID-19 but from starvation, displacement and treatable diseases. The stress on resources is exacerbating their conditions. The lives of those who have been afflicted by hardship and who have suffered from lack of basic necessities for a long time will become even more wretched, with a terrifying increase in mortality. 

This is all very depressing and distressing. I have little optimism about the ability of government, particularly the U.S. Federal government, to guide the nation through this crisis and perhaps even use the opportunity to reorganize health care and social services, redistribute wealth and focus on environmental protection. However, despite my continued befuddlement at the moral values and political agendas of a population and a system that could elect Donald Trump to the Presidency, I have faith (not limited by national boundaries) in individuals and communities. In small ways, they will continue to love and support each other and cope with the crisis and medical personnel and scientists will find treatments, vaccines and cures in the long run. Unfortunately, however, what we desperately need is effective management of the larger response to the pandemic, and this is not only disjointed and incompetent at many levels but lacking in any true compassion from the leadership in the executive branch of government. Yes, we need intelligence and articulateness, but what is most sadly lacking is basic human sympathy.  

Tuesday, May 5

Today we were particularly lazy, although Peter did make a minor repair on the spinnaker. Around 4 p.m., after the strong current switched to an upstream movement, we raised anchor and motored north six miles along the ICW to the small city of Georgetown, the third oldest city in South Carolina. Its wide streets have live oaks arching over them, and large lawns surround old homes, some pre-Revolutionary. The riverfront is lined with docks and old three-story brick buildings now housing restaurants, bars and museums along a raised wooden boardwalk. The Rice Museum, the Georgetown County Museum, the Kaminski House Museum, the South Carolina Maritime Museum and the Gullah Museum are all closed due to the pandemic. It would have been pleasant to spend time learning about the local history and culture by visiting them.

Home in Georgetown

Kaminski Mansion

Yellow rat snake on the steps of the lawn

A closer view of this constrictor

Many bars and restaurants are open, however, for outdoor dining and drinking. While some seemed to be seating groups of people at least six feet apart, others had customers standing shoulder to shoulder and tables were close together. Of all of those that we passed, only one had a server who was wearing a mask. We were looking for a place to eat when we spotted an ice cream parlor. We have been craving ice cream for a while, so we decided to have a sweet treat instead of a big dinner and then have some soup back on the boat. Each of us ordered two scoops (which turned out to be large ones) in a waffle cone, and we savored them on the boardwalk. 

Peter on the boardwalk

Kayaking back to our boat, we stopped to visit another sailboat, where two families (one from a nearby boat) were enjoying the last of the sun’s rays. It seems that everyone we meet is heading to Deltaville, Virginia, to put their boats on the hard. It has always been a popular place, but it is now even more so that all the boatyards and marinas in Maryland are closed for the pandemic. 

Peter chose the anchorage based on reviews that rated it highly for wind protection and good holding. They also mentioned that it was much quieter than it had been previously because the waterfront steel mill adjacent to the town was closed. What that they did not mention was that the hulking, rusty metal monstrosity was still visually present, a real eyesore. The cruisers’ information is also outdated, as the mill has been re-opened, although currently there is no activity due to the pandemic. Paper production must be an essential business, because International Paper Company’s huge factory is still belching out steam and smoke and causing light and noise pollution. Luckily, we do not need to keep hatches open for ventilation because the temperatures are mild, so the noise is minimal, and I have closed the blinds so these industrial wonders are blocked from my view. We have read that the stench is nasty, but fortunately, the wind is blowing in the opposite direction.

View from the bow: Liberty Steel mill 

Scenic, isn't it?

Tomorrow, we do some shopping at a supermarket, mostly for snacks and drinks, because it could be a while before we stop in another town, and then we will leave here and get back to nature.