Charleston, South Carolina

Thursday, April 30

We are still living life in the slow lane on the ICW, which is why I have not written anything in the last few days. It’s all pretty uneventful. 

We left Savannah at 7:55 on Tuesday morning, April 28, passing under the first fixed bridge with ease and maybe a foot to spare. There were no clouds and no wind, and the water was flat calm. Just before noon, we anchored up the Cooper River just before noon. After naps and lunch, we pulled up anchor at 2:25 p.m. By that time, the wind was 10-15 knots from the south, and we were able to sail for the rest of the afternoon, with speeds between 5 and 9 knots depending on our angle to the wind. We anchored with 2 meters of water under the keel in Cowen Creek, near the Marine’s base at Parris Island, south of Beaufort, South Carolina. (Not to be confused with Beaufort, North Carolina—it’s Byoo-fort, SC, and Bo-fort, NC.) It was yet another serene spot among the marshes. 

As the hours pass on our leisurely journey, we monitor the VHF radio and listen to the Coast Guard announcements, which are fairly frequent. Today there was a boat aground on Daws Island, but other boaters helped them. About the same time, a woman came on saying, “Hello,” which is not the normal form of hailing. The next thing we heard is, “This is an SOS,” which alerted mariners and the Coast Guard that this call was not from someone with experience using the VHF for maritime emergencies. Such calls usually begin with, “Pan pan, pan pan” (pronounced pahn-pahn, from a French word for breakdown). It is the internationally standard announcement that someone aboard a boat or ship (or aircraft or vehicle) uses to declare that there is an urgent situation that is not an immediate danger to life or the vessel. (This would be a mayday call.) From what we could hear—and often we can only hear the Coast Guard side of a conversation because their signal is much stronger—someone on board, we assume the captain, was having a seizure. Surprisingly, the 25-foot vessel was 60 miles offshore. We followed this situation, hearing the Coast Guard helicopter communicating with the boat and learning that a rescue had been successful. Just after we passed through Port Royal Sound into which the Beaufort and Broad Rivers empty, we heard the Coast Guard make a pan-pan announcement of a missing diver, alerting all mariners to “keep a sharp lookout.” 

There is always a strong current in Port Royal Sound and the water is murky (and there are sharks!), so we wondered what would induce someone to dive in this area. Of course, there are many unintentional wrecks along the coast, some from a couple centuries ago, and this entices some divers. (It is believed that a French ship sank in Port Royal Sound in 1577, although the remnants of it have not been found despite extensive searches.) Still, it seemed like a dangerous undertaking to us. Trying to understand why someone was diving there, I did some Internet research after we anchored. I learned that just the previous week marine archaeologists from the University of South Carolina had been diving in the area researching what is called the Stone Fleet. During the Civil War, the Union Navy loaded aging whaleships with large pieces of granite and smooth cobble and towed them south from New England to coastal South Carolina and Georgia where they sunk them to block channels through the sounds into port cities and keep blockage runners from bringing in supplies to the Confederates and carrying tobacco and cotton out as exports to support the failing Southern economy. Since the 1860’s, the actual ships have decayed and what is left are mounds of rock on the sea floor. Since there are only piles of rocks, I am befuddled as to what more could be learned about the Stone Fleet from diving among the rubble. 

Many sports divers love the area because of fossils, particularly the teeth of the shark Carcharocles megalodon. The South Carolina coast has submerged yet exposed layers of the Hawthorne Formation, a fossil bed dating between 2 and 24 million years old. Apparently, a dive consists of putting on an extra-heavy weight belt and diving down quickly to 30 or 40 feet in order to crawl around on hands and knees feeling for things which might be teeth or other fossils. Visibility in general is extremely low, and the cloud of sediment stirred up makes a flashlight practically worthless, meaning monitoring the air gauge for the tank is sometimes virtually impossible. (I’ll stick with snorkeling and diving in crystal clear waters with colorful life forms, thank you very much.)

Meanwhile, as I was doing this research in the late afternoon and evening, the Coast Guard continued to repeat this pan-pan. Distressingly, it was still being broadcast the next morning as the search for the 49-year-old diver continued. (As I write this, there is no news on the outcome of the search.)

We pulled up anchor (on Wednesday, April 29) at 8 a.m. to continue north on the ICW and find a protected anchorage for the storms predicted for later in the day and throughout the night. We passed under another fixed 65-foot bridge and then idled around and waited for the 10 a.m. opening of the Lady’s Island swing bridge. By 11 a.m., the winds were up to 17 knots from the southeast and we were able to sail again all the way to Morgan Island on the coast at Saint Helena Sound (also known as Monkey Island because of the population of over 3000 non-indigenous rhesus monkeys located there for unnecessary research on their effect on the environment). We were going to anchor near that island but chose instead to go up a creek on the south shore of the Morgan River for better protection from strong south winds. Nestled between the spring green marsh grass backed by dark green hammocks of trees on Edding Creek, we felt safe.

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View of the marsh from Mantra

After the late afternoon game of Scrabble and dinner after sunset, we got ready to settle down for the night in our snug bed as the wind was howling through the rigging well in advance of the brunt of the storm, which was not scheduled to arrive until the pre-dawn hours of Thursday. The current in the small tidal stream pushed the boat abeam of the wind. The hull shuddered and the anchor chain clunked loudly against the roller on the bow as our boat tossed and turned in the water. Peter got up and employed both the running back stays to make the mast more stable, although that did not make the thrashing decrease discernibly. A little later, as we lay awake, with the slightly vertiginous feeling of the boast spinning (although it was not), the chain began to clank and groan as it was pulled taut, and Peter arose once again to let out more chain to allow it to lie on the bottom of the creek. Peter then settled down for the night, but I could not, so I left the warmth of the bed, made a cup of hot chocolate and played solitaire while occasionally getting up to check the wind gauge. (The highest I saw was 27 knots.) 

After the wind and the current became aligned as the tide changed, I returned to bed, snuggled against Peter and fell quickly asleep. During our late breakfast this morning, both of us were able vividly to recount in precise detail our bizarre dreams from the previous night. 

The wind had died down by the time I arose, but it was dismal and dreary and I needed my wool socks and hoodie. With hours stretching before me, it was impossible to settle down to anything productive. I could have studied Spanish, exercised, cleaned, or written blog entries, but I chose to burrow in the bed and watch YouTube videos. Eventually, there was enough bright sunshine to entice me to emerge from my comfortable cocoon, and after a snack (a bad habit for dealing with boredom that I have resurrected since we returned to the States and have ready access to groceries), I indulged myself in a couple of games of solitaire (I cannot believe how I can pass so many hours mindlessly playing this!) and then started writing. Now it is nearly 3 p.m., and Peter is indicating that lunch would be appreciated!

Saturday, May 2

We are now in Charleston, South Carolina, but I will backtrack to Thursday. After a late lunch, we set off in the kayak, exploring the creek and a couple of its tributary. The tide was down, and wading birds pecked for food in the exposed, sludgy dark brown mud. We saw great blue herons, great egrets and snowy egrets and well as smaller birds. Perched high in a dead tree was a beautiful wood stork. Later, we saw a small flock of them flying above us. And then it was Scrabble, a late dinner followed by cribbage--a very quiet evening. 

Yesterday, we finally got back on the open sea, pulling up anchor just after 8 a.m. and weaving out Saint Helena Sound in 15-20 knots of chilly northwest wind. I stayed down below, my feet in wool socks on either side of my hot water bottle, popping up on deck to help raise and reef sails but otherwise reading and napping while reclining on the lee side of the boat. Even with 2 reefs, we were able to sail 7 to 10 knots, making it to Charleston quickly. We maneuvered in to our place on the Charleston City Marina’s Megadock against the strong current of the Ashley River. Our decks covered with sea spray, our pilot house windows nearly impossible to see through, we took our place among the mega yachts, some about 3 times as long as we are. The real difference, however, is that they are all spotless and gleaming with not a millimeter of rust or chipped paint to be found. (We have not yet washed our boat since arriving. How déclassé!)

The young full-time crews on the megayachts are busy during the day cleaning and polishing and doing boat maintenance. Later in the day they can be found stripped down to their shorts maintaining there physiques doing sit-ups on the docks and lifting weights and doing lat and tricep work on the railings while flashing dazzling smiles. They need to meet the job requirement of being dishy and hunky at all times. 

Four of numerous crew members working hard and looking good on the Megadock

We could not be bothered to beautify our boat after docking. Locking up, we set off to find take-out food and then take a long walk to enjoy the sunshine and admire the lovely old Southern homes. We ordered dinner at a nice waterfront restaurant with lovely views of the marshland and then ate it at a picnic table with the same view. 

Black crowned night heron

View along the waterfront

As we were walking along the attractive streets of Charleston, having gone about a mile, Peter turned his head to look down the side of a building while still walking and stepped on the back of my right flip flop, causing the strap to rip off from the sole. It was irreparable, at least there on the sidewalk, so we had to turn back. When we made it back to the waterfront, with me barefoot on the fortunately clean sidewalks, Peter jogged ahead to the marina to get another pair of flip flops for me. Eventually, I found a bench on which to wait. He returned as the sun as setting, but we decided to continue our perambulation as darkness settled in. We walked for another two hours through mostly deserted streets. King Street, a fashionable shopping area, had a few restaurants open for take-out, and the trendy storefront windows were all illuminated and showing tasteful displays of merchandise, but it was all look but don’t buy. 

We returned to the boat at 10 p.m., fairly tired, but we checked email and looked a couple of websites before retiring. We had continued to hear Coast Guard announcements throughout the day of the search from the diver missing since Thursday afternoon. When I had initially tried to find out more about it on the Internet a couple days ago, what initially popped up was reports of a successful search and rescue for two divers in approximately the same place. These divers went missing on the afternoon of March 12 of this year, less than seven weeks ago. The 66-year-old diver, Jimmy Armstrong, was found by a Coast Guard helicopter around 1 a.m. on March 13, and the other diver, a 49-year-old local man, was recovered by a charter fishing boat around 8 a.m. south of Parris Island. I speculated that the diver who went missing on April 28 might be the same 49-year-old man, Alan Devier. Sadly, this is the case. His family, of course, had been traumatized by the incident in March and had purchased and insisted that he wear a GPS device on future dives. Unfortunately, he forgot it. He was diving with his same partner, who apparently searched for him for a couple of hours before notifying the authorities. It is still a search and rescue mission even though the Coast Guard and other responders have found not trace after covering more than 785 square miles. It is very tragic.

Peter and I are relaxing on the boat this morning and catching up with things in general. This afternoon we will head out for take-out lunch and more exploring of this elegant old city.