Lake Worth, Florida

We sailed from the Ponce de Leon Inlet to Lake Worth, Florida, leaving at 11:30 yesterday morning and arriving here at noon today.  It was a bit rough through the inlet, where fisherman were anchored behind the jetty enjoying the summer-like day.

Fisherman behind the Ponce de Leon Inlet jetty

After we got out in the open ocean, the seas were calm, with 2 to 4 foot waves for the next 24 hours.  Most of the time we had 10 to 15 knot winds from the northwest or the north, so the wind was at our backs and we had a smooth ride on a broad reach, only having to tack or jibe occasionally.

The highlight was not the sailing but getting close to Cape Canaveral and watching the launch of Space X's Falcon 9 rocket yesterday afternoon.  We were able to follow Space X's commentary in high quality sound from our stereo speakers and know when the fueling was commencing and when the final countdown began.  We rolled up the jib for an unimpeded view.  The four of us were able to be on the foredeck and watch the orange explosion and billowing of white steam as the countdown ended and then follow the rocket as it rose from the launchpad and arced across the sky, trailing fire and gasses.  It was truly spectacular, and we felt lucky to be in the right place at the right time to witness such an achievement.

Falcon 9 after launch from Cape Canaveral

A few hours later, we had a great dinner of pumpkin and sage ravioli in al fredo sauce and then watched another show, this time by nature.  The sunset seemed to last forever, beginning with pastel colors and then deepening into bold hues until the sky darkened and a half moon lit the scattered clouds and gentle Atlantic waves.

Sunset south of Cape Canaveral

Having guests on board who are willing to be crew is great.  With Paula, I was on watch from 7:00 to 11:00 p.m. yesterday, and then, hooray, I was able to get into my night clothes and sleep through the night in my bed.  So, today, I feel like a normal person rather than a person suffering from sleep deprivation or jetlag.

Now we are anchored among many other vessels on Lake Worth, between Palm Beach to the east and West Palm Beach.  On both sides of the water, the shores are lined with--what else!--swaying palm trees, docks with yachts and modest mansions.  The wind is gusting up to 20 knots, so it is good to be anchored.  We will be here for a couple of days at least, waiting for a weather window to cross the Gulf Stream to the Bahamas by Thanksgiving.

We have so, so much to be thankful for.

New Smyrna, Florida

We had a smooth day of sailing from St. Augustine to the Ponce de Leon Inlet and are anchored on the Halifax River right now.  Going for the first opening of the Gate of Lions Bridge in St. Augustine, we cast off the dock at 6:55 a.m. and were motoring under the bridge at 7 a.m.  We set the sails as soon as we got past the inlet markers.  After a couple of hours, the wind decreased to 10-12 knots, so we put up the bright blue and red spinnaker and sailed with it for hours.  Although the waves were four to six feet at the beginning of the daysail, they reduced to one to two feet in the early afternoon and sailing was really pleasant with the sunshine brightening our day.

Paula and Andrew arrived at 6:30 this morning and now are on board with us until we reach Grand Bahama.  They both took Dramamine to ward off seasickness, so they were both somewhat drowsy.  Andrew wasn't as actively involved in the sailing as he usually is.  Drugs can do that to you.

Peter waiting for dolphins to leap on the swim deck

Peter and Andrew in the pilot house  

Paula

We found a peaceful place to anchor near a mangrove covered island well before sunset just up the river from the lovely red lighthouse marking the entrance.  Dolpins welcomed us.  I took a shower on the swim deck in the warmth of the afternoon, and now I have black bean soup simmering on the stove for dinner.   Nothing to do but relax now!

St. Augustine, Florida

Peter and I departed from Cape Lookout Bight at 9 a.m. on Saturday morning, along with a few other boats heading south, and arrived at the Municipal Marina in St. Augustine at 2 p.m. yesterday afternoon.  We were able to sail almost all the way; we just turned on the engine for a couple of hours off the Florida coast to ensure that we made it in before squalls started.  I stood watch as much as I could.  Actually, the second night I would have been able, despite the tedium, to stay up for four to six hours, but Peter only slept for two hours, and I didn't see any sense in two of us watching nothing.

Here's what it like being on watch at night, particularly when there is no moon.  I look out in all directions and see nothing but the dark surface of the water, punctuated, depending on the conditions, with white caps or high waves.  (They got up to ten feet on the second night.)  The stars make a lovely canopy, if it's not cloudy, which it was.  I monitor our position on the chart and look at the radar, where blips would appear if anything else was out there.  There usually wasn't.  I check the depth, which ranged from 20 to 30 meters as we sailed over the Continental Shelf, not really expecting a problem since we were anywhere from five to 25 miles off the coast.  I watch the instruments to know the true and apparent wind and the direction and check the angle of the boat in relation to the apparent wind.  I adjust the course in relation to the direction of the wind and in response to gusts.  The boat is sailing on auto-pilot, so I don't need to stand at the wheel.  I can check the electronic charts for the name, type, location and course of other vessels, if there are any, using AIS (Automatic Identification System).  I usually search for company in vain.  In addition to using all the instruments, I pay attention to the noise of the sails and the rigging and how much we are heeling over to help me keep a good angle to the wind and not let the sails be overpowered or luff.  Sometimes, the wind is consistent in speed and direction, and there is absolutely nothing to do.  On this last leg of our journey, it was variable, so I had to hit the starboard or port button on the auto-pilot a few times an hour, but that was the only action required.  Maybe this seems like a lot to do, but it is not.  The instruments are all arrayed above the companionway, and the full electronic chart on the screen at the navigation table can be seen from there.  If conditions are steady, it is pretty boring.  If conditions are challenging, then Peter takes over and I stay to help if necessary.

If you don't sail or if you only day sail, it may be hard to imagine what it is like being out to sea for 52 hours (or longer!).  Most people have flown some distance, so I will make an analogy.  You take off and after a short while you catch the last glimpse of land you will see for two days.  You will be over the ocean most of the time, sometimes in clear skies but just as often in the clouds, so visibility is limited.  Having a window seat is not that advantageous.  The plane is large and the seating is comfortable, but the pilot chooses to fly at a 15 degree angle to horizontal the whole time, so you have to brace yourself even when you are seated.  Even if you are flying first class and have a bed, you have to put up lee sheets vertical to the sides of the bed so you don't roll out.  And it is just too much trouble to change out of your clothes, so you wear the same thing for the entire flight, whether you are awake or sleeping.  Using the bathroom is a bit of a challenge.  When you choose to move around, you need to do so cautiously, finding things to hold on to as you make your way from one space to another.  You need to wear a couple of layers, because the temperature is around 55 or 60 degrees Fahrenheit, and, depending on where you are, the ventilation is blowing cold air directly on you.  And then there is turbulence.  The plane rises up and drops down, sometimes with a resounding thump.  First class, with the comfortable if slanting beds, is in the front, and you can feel and hear the turbulence more there.  The galley is fully stocked, but you have to prepare and serve your own food while bracing yourself againt the angle of flight.  (You eat mostly snack food.)  No one is coming down the aisle collecting trash.  There is no wi-fi or cellular service, so you are disconnected from the world.  You didn't think to add songs to your iTunes library before departure, so you are listening to the same limited playlist of your favorite tunes, which, by the end of the trip, you never want to hear again.  There is a small library on the plane, but you find that you have already recently read all the selections.  Besides, the motion and tilt of the plane combined with reading tend to cause you to develop motion sickness.  Your seatmate agrees to play a game of cards with you, but looking at his cards for long makes him a bit nauseous.  (And he beats you!)  You wonder when it all will ever end.

I have always been an advocate for enjoying the journey rather than focusing only on the destination, but passagemaking is an exception.  Do astronauts enjoy the the journey to the moon the whole time? I wonder.

We survived another passage, though.  We hadn't really taken into account whether the tide would be ebbing or flooding at the St. Augustine Inlet, and we probably should have, although I don't think we were prepared to wait offshore for it to change.  The shoals of the inlet shift over time, so charts may not be accurate.  It can be tricky.  On our electronic chart, Peter tracked the course of a boat entering the inlet before us, and we followed his course.  As we turned at the first marker at the entrance, Peter spotted a sailboat coming out.  I went down below to contact them by radio to confirm a port-to-port passing.  In that short amount of time, the effects of the strong ebbing current on the waves from the northwest manifested themselves.  We were rising up on 10-12 foot waves and then surfing down them at an acute angle.  Peter was manhandling the wheel and had the presence of mind to go full throttle.  As I popped up, quietly asking "What's happening?" I saw us sliding down a wave, heading toward the outgoing boat.  We missed them barely and managed to pass port-to-port, but it was harrowing for a minute or so.  That was perhaps Peter's most exciting moment at the wheel so far in our years of sailing.

Now we are safely docked.  Even though I was tired after we tied up, I couldn't stand the mess that had accumulated or how dirty the boat had become in a few days.  Immediately, I attacked the chaos, whipping things into shape, doing two days worth of dishes and cleaning the bathroom and all the flat surfaces.

Paula and Andrew took a cruise ship from Freeport, Grand Bahama, yesterday and rented a car to drive up the coast.  We met them for dinner at the Columbia restaurant last night, where we enjoyed great tapas.  They are moving on board today and sailing with us down the coast and across to Lucaya.  Peter is working on things on the boat, Andrew is exploring the old city of St. Augustine, I am doing laundry and Paula is shopping this afternoon.  As soon as the last load is done, I will remake the beds with the new quilts and shams that were shipped here via Amazon, and then I will explore the town and, I hope, find a new pair of flip flops.  The ones I bought over a year ago at Walmart in Idaho Falls during our solar eclipse trip have served me well, but the strap is separating from the sole on one of them.

There are pelicans and gulls flying around, and there is always at least egret on the docks.  The marina is right by the picturesque old city and fort, so it is a great base for exploration.  Just waiting for the laundry!!!

Great egret and snowy egret by Mantra

Cape Lookout National Seashore

We woke up this morning to calm winds and seas.  Surprisingly, I slept through the night, because I had slept most of the afternoon on Thursday.  The skies were still overcast through mid-morning, and then the sunshine took over.  A rainbow arced low on the northern horizon over the sand and dunes of Cape Lookout National Seashore.

Rainbow over the north shore of Cape Lookout Bight

Peter worked on the radio and planned the next part of our journey south while I studied Spanish and cleaned the pilot house.  It became warm enough to sit on the aft deck and read a book.  Peter had suggested getting the dinghy down and going ashore early in the morning before the sun broke through the cloud cover and I declined.  But everything looked more appealing in the light, so after lunch (on deck!), we put on our swimsuits and t-shirts (Yeah!) and went to the northern shore of the bight.

Peter collecting shells on the beach and the Cape Lookout Lighthouse in the distance

Cape Lookout Lighthouse and patterns in the sand and water at low tide

It was great to be on land.  The beach was strewn with shells, most of them broken but still colorful.  We collected some intact ones, mostly scallops in shades of red and ochre.  Here and there, we discovered the remains of horseshoe crabs and large jellies, still glistening, left ashore as the tide receded.  Their internal organs are discernible through their translucent bodies.

Seashells on the beach

Jelly bigger than my foot

From Mantra, I had spotted wild horses on the beach, but none were around when we went ashore.  The beach is long.  First we walked east and around a point, then we retraced our steps (which we could literally due in the wet sand), passed the dinghy and went in the other direction.  I was trying to sneak up, fairly unsuccessfully, on pelicans, oystercatchers and gulls resting on the flats where the tide had ebbed, when I spotted a horse.  We slowly approached it from a distance, but it seemed indifferent to us.  After getting some good photos of that horse, I saw another one farther down the shore, on the top of a grass covered dune.  Of course, I had to get as close as possible to that one also.    Both of them were quite shaggy and dark reddish-brown and had white blazes on their heads.  They were too busy eating to pay us any mind.

Wild horse busy eating

As we strolled along the beach, Peter gathered trash, as he always does when we take a walk or a hike.  Actually, there was not much on the northern shore of Cape Lookout Bight.  When we took a walk across the dunes on the opposite shore to the open water, the amount of flotsam and jetsam was overwhelming, so we ignored it as best we could.  It was interesting to feel and see the difference between the sand on the inside of the bight, where it ranged from silty to coarse, and the much finer, wind-tamped sand on the dunes and down to the beach on the outside.

We had hoped to take hot showers on the swim deck, but the sun disappeared behind the western clouds and a cold wind blew in.  The unblemished azure sky took on a bruised look as the clouds quickly thickened.  The weather was changing.  After pulling up the dinghy, we weighed anchor and moved to another spot in the south of the bight for protection from the wind and fetch.

It was a glorious afternoon, the type that (almost?) makes the suffering in bad weather and on night sails worth it.  It was great to be barefoot again, but the rain returns in the night, the temperature is dropping tomorrow, and the wind will be on the high side of "breeze."

Anchored in Cape Lookout Bight--Thank God!

The wind was below 5 knots and the sea was calm when we started the latest leg of our journey, pulling up anchor at 8:30 p.m. on Tuesday evening.  We entered the lower Chesapeake and the winds picked up to 12-14 knots, and we sailed down the channel and out into the Northern Atlantic.  The skies were clear but clouded up over the night.  The wind was sometimes too light to sail and we had to motor over the next 24 hours, all through Wednesday.  Around midnight, we started encountering bad weather.  I stood watch for about an hour, but the wind was alternating from southwest to northeast and we were in danger of jibing, so I had to wake Peter up.  Making little progress in the storm, we heaved to around 2 a.m. this morning to get some rest, but the howling of the wind and the pitching and yawing of the boat was not restful, so within a half an hour we were underway again.  Torrential rain poured, and the following wind blew it into the pilot house, so there was no escaping the weather, especially for poor Peter, who was on deck the whole night.  He suffered the most, but I was unable to sleep the whole night either.  The wind settled in from the north at 20-30 knots, with frequent gusts up to 36.  The 6 to 8 foot waves were pummeling the hull. Visibility was down to zero, even when lightning sparked the clouds a ghostly white.

I took watch before dawn.  I saw a shooting star in the part of the sky that was clear.  (It doesn't take much to brighten things up when it's basically a dark and stormy night.)  Peter changed out of his wet clothes and collapsed on one of the seats in the pilot house.  The wind had died down to 13 knots, but the waves were still 2 to 4 feet with short intervals.

Peter sleeping in the pilot house after a rough night

At 7 a.m., our spirits were rescued by dophins, dozens of dolphins converging on the bow, arcing out of the water and practicing synchronized swimming.  Despite the drenched decks, I went up to the bow to watch them.  They stayed to play for about half an hour.

Dolphins to the rescue

Dolphins under the anchor

Then the wind picked up again to 20 knots after the lull, and we motored around Cape Lookout and into the bight where, along with a few other boats heading south, we found some refuge from the storm.  The boat is not rocking, but the wind has been howling all day, which always makes me feel anxious.  It is supposed to last through the night, and more rain is on the way.

Tomorrow should be better.  (Photos later because the connection is not strong enough for uploading.)

Baltimore to Tangier Island to Mobjack Bay

We were busy in Baltimore last Thursday through Saturday, so I didn't take the time to post on the blog.  Our next destination was Tangier Island, where I thought I'd have plenty of time to write.  While I did have lots of time, we had no cell service or Internet connection there.  Although we didn't expect this, it was good preparation for when we leave the States.  Next year, connectivety will be spotty.

I thoroughly enjoyed wearing t-shirts, capris and flip flops last Thursday and Friday in Baltimore; the temperature was in the mid-70's and the wind was below a breeze.  On Thursday, I rented a car to get provisions for the boat.  I filled up a platform truck at Costco with paper goods, canned food, cleaning supplies and other stuff.  We filled two dock carts to overflowing to transport the purchases from the car to the boat.  Later in the day, I visited Target to get smaller items.  I was too tired from all this shopping to face the challenge of finding places to stow everything, so I left it all out for the next day.

Some of the provisions from Costco

Instead, Peter and I went to dinner at another great place in Canton, Dangerously Delicious.  Mondays through Thursdays there is a date night special:  two pieces of savory pie (quiche) plus a salad, two drinks and two slices of pie for only $22.   The walls are lined with posters, art work and quite a few signed photographs of rock 'n roll performers by Baltimore photographer Sam Holden, who died young four years ago.  Through Internet research and talking to a waitress, we learned that he was prolific and well-known for his rapport with musicians.  Some of his photographs became album covers.

On Friday, I tackled the job of unpackaging and stowing the provisions.  Items in cardboard boxes, particulary corrugated cardboard, have to be unpacked and the boxes discarded because cockroaches may have laid eggs in the glue.  No one wants to be surprised by a hoard of young cucarachas while at sea.

In order to make everything fit and to maintain some kind of system, I pulled out all the items stored in the galley lockers and the refrigerator and started from scratch.  Now, there is a shelf for snack items, one for lunch and dinner provisions and another for breakfast and hot drinks in the main pantry locker.  The food that won't be used for a while is far in the back in the galley lockers or under the more perishable stuff in the refrigerator.

Part way through my tasks, I suddenly remembered that I had to return the rental car.  Changing from my stained work clothes, I rushed to get there in time, and then I took a leisurely stroll on a longer route back to the marina, stopping in a couple of boutiques near the waterfront in historic Fell's Point.  The architecture from the 18th and 19th centuries has been well preserved.  Dockside workshops and warehouses and bordellos have repurposed as restaurants, retail stores and inns, and the atmosphere is lively and appealing.

Cornices and dormer windows, Fell's Point

Thames Street by the waterfront in Fell's Point

Back on the boat, after my excursion, I pulled up all the seat cushions in the saloon and found space for paper towels, toilet paper, napkins and shop towels in the compartments under them.  With items still left over, I pulled up the boards under the bottom bunk in the aft cabin where I was able to jam in the rest of the stuff.  There actually is an amazing amount of room on a boat.

Occasionally, my work was interrupted by Peter, who was busy repairing the standing rigging on the foredeck.  I had to help with unbolting the stainless steel plate that attaches the forestay to the deck.  The bolt heads are on the top and the nuts are underneath, accessible from the forepeak, so it is not a one-person job.  In addition, all the anchor chain had to be hauled out of the anchor locker in the forepeak to access all the rigging.  My easy task was operating the toggle switch for the electric windlass while Peter hauled out the chain, keeping tension on it, and ran it up and down the dock.  It's always good to inspect the chain occassionally, so we accomplished that task while learning that we have about 95 meters of chain and also that the attachment of the bitter end, the piece of heavy rope that connects the end of the chain to the fastener inside the bow, needed to be redone since it would have not released properly if, heaven forbid, we ever found ourselves in a situation when we needed to abandon anchor.

Peter had hoped to finish the repair of the part of the stay under the deck in one day, but that didn't happen.  Luckily, he had secured the above-deck part of the rigging with lines since the wind picked up that evening.

After I finished the second round of laundry in the late afternoon, just as it started to rain, we walked to Fell's Point, about fifteen minutes away from Anchorage Marina, where we met Steve and Susanne for dinner at an Irish pub.  We enjoyed the food and swapping sailing and repair stories.

It rained hard in the night and the wind was strong.  By morning, the skies had cleared to a brilliant blue, but the wind persisted.  At 9 a.m., Enis picked us up at the marina and drove us to their condo where Ula was busy preparing us a superb breakfast of eggs Benedict served with steamed asparagus and fresh strawberries, followed by homemade crepes.  After eating entirely too much food, we bundled up and went for a walk in their neighborhood, Homeland, which is a lovely residential community.  Finally, we found the fall foliage!  Alive with color, the reds, oranges and yellows of the deciduous trees vied for attention as we passed stately brick and stone homes.

Ula, Peter, Sherri and Enis in Homeland

In the afternoon, I finished getting everything properly stowed and cleaned below deck, made a final run for food at Safeway across the street, offloaded the trash and all the discarded boxes and helped Peter reattach the base plate on the deck.  Later than we had hoped, at 8 p.m. on Saturday evening, we cast off the dock at Anchorage Marina and motored down the Patapsco River toward the Chesapeake.    In the early part of the night, the wind was too light for true sailing, so we motor-sailed south.  At 1:30 a.m., Peter went below to sleep and I stood watch for four hours.  There was little traffic but I was not totally bored as I usually am at sea, where there is nothing to see in any direction.

During my watch, the wind had picked up to 16 knots, and Peter immediately cut the engine when he took over and put out the jib.  It wasn't long before I needed Peter's assistance to put up the lee sheet on the starboard side of our bed to keep me from rolling on to the floor.

Having maneuvered through the shallow shoals to the entrance of Oyster Creek on Tangier Island, Virginia, we tied on to the posts on the little dock of Parks Marina with the help of the owner and sole dockhand, Wilton Parks, who is 88 years old.  Friendly and talkative, he welcomed us to the little island inhabited by fewer than a thousand people, most of whom an descendents of early settlers.

Always a small piece of land composed of three parallel sandy ridges surrounded by tidal salt marshes and cut by small streams, Tangier Island has lost two-thirds of its landmass since 1850.  It is now about one square mile in size and what is left is expected to be underwater within the next 50 years.  Already, a much smaller island to the north has become a marsh, and some its original houses were moved to the ridges of Tangier Island, where the highest elevation is four feet above sea level.

Tangier Island marshland

We strolled along the few narrow streets of the town, occassionally being passed by a golf cart or a bicycle, the primary means of transportation on the island.  There are only a few cars and trucks.  Access to the island is by private boat or ferry from Maryland or by private plane.  Verizon does not have service on Tangier Island, so we were incommunicado for our stay there.  Since it is not tourist season, the four tiny gift shops and the town museum were closed.

The wooden houses are small and quaint.  Two churches--Swain  Memorial Methodist Church (1835) and the New Testament Congregation (1946)--appear to be the predominant buildings in town, both physically and socially.  Many of the houses as well as the two churches and the medical clinic have small signs posted by the street explaining their significance.  Since it was Sunday morning, there were few pedestrians or carts on Main Ridge Road as everyone was either in church or staying quietly at home.

We learned from one of the signs that there is a long tradition of quiet Sunday mornings in Tangier, dating back to the early 19th century and the rise of Methodism.  In the early 20th century, the law required everyone to be either in church or indoors at home on Sundays.  On one Sunday morning in the 1930's, 17-year-old Roland Parks ventured outside to get ice cream for his mother (although the stores were all closed), according to his testimony, and he was shot and wounded by deputy sheriff Bud Connorton.  Connorton served a year in prison but returned to become sheriff.  Shortly after that, he was fatally shot through a window and his assailant was never identified.  Obviously, there's more to this story, but the residents weren't talking then nor are they now.

There are cemeteries by and near the churches where most of the island's deceased are buried, but some homes have graves in their front yards.  This tradition is not unique to Tangier, but it is quite noticeable.  Why did families bury deceased family members in their yards?  It may be because of limited availability of land above sea level or the family wanting to have the graves nearby in order to care for them and protect them from vermin.

Graves in a front yard in Tangier

A few family names predominate the inscriptions on the headstones and tombs:  Crockett, Parks, Pruitt, Eskridge, Shores, Thomas, Marshall and Dise.  Crockett was the surname of the first permanent Anglo-American settler in the late 18th century.  The descendents of the early settlers who stayed on the isolated island have intermarried and carried on traditions.

One of the reasons Peter wanted to visit this relatively isolated island is that is noted for its distinctive dialect.  Some linguists believe that it has its roots in British English from over 200 years ago, perhaps from the area of Cornwall.  We actually did not perceive a striking accent among the many people we talked with or listened to.  Peter thought that he may have detected a western British accent, but mostly people sounded as if they were from Appalachia or the near South.  But, then, we are not linguists.

In any case, the lineage of the inhabitants, if not their speech patterns, goes back to the early settlers.  Although the first white people came to farm, the focus of production quickly changed from the soil to the sea.  There is a long tradition of watermen.  Oystering was the first major industry but was later largely replaced by crabbing, and Tangier Island is now proclaimed the soft-shell clam capital of the world (although there was no soft shell crab available that day in the only restaurant open in town, Lorraine's).  North of the island are many free-standing docks not connected to land which watermen use to hold crabs while they moult.

Crab shacks on Oyster Creek, Tangier Island

The island is proud of its waterman heritage and also takes note of a significant part of the island's history, its use as a base by the British military during the War of 1812.  Under the command of Rear Admiral George Cockburn, soldiers built Fort Albion (long gone) in 1813, and the island hosted up to 1200 British troops.  It was the base for the attacks of the Battle of Brandenburg, the burning of Washington and the assault on Baltimore (which inspired "The Star-Spangled Banner").  The islanders seem to take pride not in the British occupation of their island but in the pronouncement of the lay preacher Joshua Thomas, the famed itinerate "parson of the islands," who led services for the troops.  He predicted during his sermon to the soldiers before the Battle of Baltimore that they would not succeed.

Having acquired as surprisingly large amount of information in a short period of time in a very small place, we decided to leave the next morning on our journey south, despite a small craft advisory issued by the Coast Guard.  (As Matthew will attest, such warnings have not deterred Peter in the past, so it is no surprise that he disregards them in the present.)  With a gusty easterly wind blowing at 23 knots and a strong current in the creek, with old Mr. Parks' assistance, we cast off from the dock on Tangier Island around 9 a.m.  Out in the bay, we hoisted the main with 3 reefs as the wind increased to 27 knots (no longer a breeze, but near gale) and gusted up to 32.  The 1 to 2 foot waves became 6 to 8 feet waves as we sailed south with the reefed main and a partially set jib on a close reach for a few hours. Sustained winds reached 30 knots.

I was coping with the choppy seas and howling wind by half-sleeping in the pilot house.  Suddenly, the wind shifted from the east to the northwest and dropped to 5 knots; the abrupt change in conditions and movement immediately awakened me.  The seas calmed and we turned on the engine to motorsail for the remaining three hours until we reached Mobjack Bay.  We were planning to head up the Severn River to find a protected anchorage as squalls were predicted for Tuesday.  We were hailed on the VHF by another vessel, Crazy Horse, which turned out to be another Sundeer similar to ours.  After the captains chatted for a while, we went our separate ways in Mobjack Bay.  Then, Peter decided to hail them again to find out where they were anchoring and it was decided that we would follow them to the mouth of the East River.

We anchored off their starboard side, tidied up and lowered the dinghy.  Our little engine wouldn't start, so we didn't bother to take it off its mount on the stern, and we didn't want to haul the heavy outboard up from the forepeak, so we chose to paddle across.  The water was placid and the paddling was easy.   We joined Bill and Rosemary on their boat for drinks and hors d'ouevre and conversation.  They have owned their boat for years and sailed her around the world in 18 months as part of a rally about a decade ago.  Of course, Peter and Bill discussed sails, engines, batteries, refrigeration and other systems.  Peter was delighted to see Crazy Horse's battery configuration, and Bill was pleased to learn that we had a spare part that he could use in his refrigeration system.  After a pleasant evening, we paddled back to Mantra, retreived the refrigeration motor that was just taking up storage space on our boat and returned to their boat to deliver it.

Maybe because of the intense sailing conditions in the morning, we were both really tired and went to bed quite early after a light dinner.  Actually, it was too early for me, so I got back up, made hot cocoa and played a couple solitary games of Anagram before returning to bed with a comforting hot water bottle.  (How have I lived nearly 64 years without knowing about this wonder of warmth and relaxation?)

Today, mid-morning, we pulled up anchored and motored up around a bend in the river to anchor in a place with better protection from south winds and the predicted afternoon squalls, which passed over quite quickly.  About 8 p.m. this evening, we will set off, leave the Chesapeake and sail near the Virginia and North Carolina coasts for a night and a day and (oh, dread!) another night for our next destination, Cape Lookout National Seashore on the Southern Outer Banks.  After resting there, we will continue south.  The weather predictions are looking quite favorable for our journey.

Back in Baltimore

The Statue of Liberty from the stern 

Staten Island ferries crossing in New York Harbor

On Monday, Oct. 29, we waited for the wind to shift to the northwest and then, around 2:30 in the afternoon, we hauled up anchor and bid goodbye to the Manhattan skyline and the lovely Statue of Liberty, welcoming people to America.  Thirty hours later, we dropped the anchor in the placid waters at the mouth of the Sassafras River.  We started out with two reefs in the main sail in New York Harbor; within an hour, we were sailing on a beam reach, going nine and a half knots, aided by two knots of current.  The wind was steady at 16 knots, and we shook out a reef an hour later and sailed smoothly in calm ocean waters off the coast of New Jersey for six hours.  Then the wind picked up to 20-25 knots and shifted to the west, so we put in three reefs to shorten the sail and lower the stress on the rigging as we sailed on a close reach.

At 11 p.m., after Peter, who utterly enjoys it, had done most of the sailing for hours (with the help of the autopilot, of course, he decided to get some sleep and I went on watch.  Stars littered the sky and a waning gibbous moon reflected off the rolling surface of the water.  Peter is really not very good at resting when we are sailing, and after an hour and a half, although I was willing and able to keep watch longer, he was back in the cockpit.  We had to roll in the jib part way with increased wind.

While I was asleep down below, Peter decided in the middle of the night to furl the jib and use the engine, hugging the shore more closely to avoid the chop. A couple of hours later, all on his own, he cut the engine, put the jib back up and Mantra was sailing again.  I took over watch around 4 a.m.  I don't mind night watch so much when there are other vessels around; it is interesting to identify the boats by their lights and figure out which direction they are going.  On passages, sometimes hours and hours pass--sometimes the whole night--without a glimpse of another vessel, and the world seems like a lonely place.

One advantage of doing night watch is seeing the gradual lightening of the eastern horizon as dawn approaches.  The edge of the sea and the sky slowly changes from black to indigo and then to warm hues, and the light intensifies until the orangish-yellow sun peeks up and then reveals itself, first a small arc of brightness, rising and expanding until the entire orb is visible.  Having pulled itself up from behind the sea, our star seems to rest momentarily on the thin line between sky and ocean before daylight suffuses the full firmament.  

The sky brightening before sunrise

The sun splattering yellow light around itself

We had planned to stop in Cape May, New Jersey, for a rest, but the weather forecast seemed favorable so we continued up Delaware Bay.  The flood tide and current were fighting against the westerly wind.  We had expected the wind to shift to the southwest, but it didn't, so we were forced to beat into it with the engine.  After a couple of hours (the bay is big and boring), the waves died down and it was more pleasant, though traveling with the engine is never as pleasant as being under sail.

It was 5 p.m. yesterday before we entered the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal.  No sailing is allowed (although the wind was finally favorable for sail), so we motored along at good speed with the current.  A Coast Guard broadcast on the VHF radio announced that the Conowingo Dam on the Susquehanna River at the top of the Chesapeake Bay had opened nine gates the previous night, releasing over 60,000 CFS, bringing debris to the bay.  Given this knowledge, we chose to anchor after passing through the canal since we would be unable to see floating logs and branches even with the moonlight.

We anchored at the mouth of the lovely Sassafras River on the northeastern shore of the Chesapeake. This morning, we pulled up anchor at 9 a.m. and headed for Baltimore, to return to Anchorage Marina.  The southwest wind was only 10 knots, the lightest we have experienced in a couple of weeks, and we were able to shake out all the reefs and sail along at five and half knots over calm water (avoiding a few pieces of wood here and there) on a close reach.  Unfortunately, the wind became a light breeze in the early afternoon, and we were forced to furl the jib and use the engine.

The dockmaster, Wayne, was waiting for us at the same slip, B26, where Mantra had spent the summer.  Wayne is such a friendly and competent dockmaster, and in the few weeks we spent here in August and September, we had grown comfortable with the marina and the Canton neighborhood.  It almost felt like coming home.

Approaching Baltimore

And it was warm, almost 70 degrees F.  I changed into capris, a three-quarter length sleeve shirt and flip-flops.  After a wonderful, hot shower, I gathered up laundry and got to work while Peter puttered around on the boat.

This evening, we went to one of our favorite restaurants here, Nacho Mamma's.  I had my usual portabello and spinach quesadilla and Peter, who always has something different and has never been disappointed, tried the cajun chicken pot pie.

Since we will be leaving the States in a couple of weeks, and provisioning will be more challenging in the Bahamas and parts of the Caribbean, I must make a Costco run and do some other errands while we spend the next couple of days here.