December 10-15, 2017

    By the time we reached Oriental, we had experienced enough navigating through ICW channels to satiate our appetite for as far as we could see into the future.  Though we couldn’t wait to press forward, ironically enough, it was the open spaces and infinite number of isolated bays and river anchorages in the Chesapeake that we sincerely started to miss.

     If a black-hearted blue water cruiser were cursed by the Devil, and banished to spend all eternity sailing an endless maze of narrow channels fighting tides, currents, limited anchorages, and negotiating bridges barely taller than the mast, that sailor would be sent to the ICW south of Oriental, NC.

     We spent only two nights at Oriental and never stepped ashore.  Just enough of a pause to meet up with with James and Dena, who we finally managed to rendezvous with for the first time since we were stranded with a broken raw water pump in Virginia, to talk about possible plans and drink far too much Kraken rum.

     From Oriental, we made a small leap to Morehead City.  With limited anchorages available and bridge schedules always affecting progress, we find ourselves often having to stop ten or fifteen miles short of where we’d like to get to, or having a ten hour day that stretches from sunup to sundown in order to make forty or fifty miles.  

     Currents, which are now reaching three knots both with and against you at times, as well as tidal changes of five feet that can control our ability to cross under bridges are always having to be taken into consideration.  It is an immense difference from our initial experiences in the Chesapeake Bay area where tides and currents were almost non-existent. 

     Nonetheless, this is good as well as comparatively benign training for what is to come ahead.  As we push farther south, currents will reach five knots at times and tides will change by as much as nine feet which will have profound impacts on our ability to safely move at times and anchoring location choices we will have to make.

     It turned out to be good fortune that we arrived at Morehead City early.   Just prior to reaching the city was yet another bridge with 65 foot clearance, and the present high tide put our mast within one foot of that… too close for us.  We needed to turn around and wait until the tide dropped a bit.

     This gave us time to check out a potential spot to anchor we had just passed up.  The location we had scoped out earlier on the charts turned out to be far too small for us to be able to put out a reasonable amount of chain; in fact, it was barely wide enough to get turned back around in!   But it did take us long enough that, by the time we got back to the bridge, the tide had dropped enough for our psychological wellbeing to proceed.

     The only other option for anchoring was off a channel between Sugar Loaf Island and the marinas on the opposite shore.  It was a quite limited area and already had eight boats occupying space there, two of which were wrecks on the shore and two sat at anchor, barely afloat, decks covered with bags and possessions that looked like they had sat for months.  Derelict corpses, they now served only as depressing memories in the aftermath of Hurricane Irma.

     Trying to stay well away from the other boats, we ended up testing the limits of our draft by anchoring in a spot that put us swinging in three knot currents into an area that dropped to only four feet deep at low tide.  While sitting only six inches above the bottom didn’t do much to help us sleep that night, it did wonders to boost our deep commitment to Exit’s shallow draft.

     Anchor up first thing in the morning and, once again, we were pressing forward in North Carolina.  It would have been nice to spend more time going ashore and exploring more of the surrounding towns and their histories, but the end of the year is bearing down on us.  

     Our late start has meant we need to forego a lot of sidetracking options as we pass from state to state down the East Coast, but we can feel the December weather becoming more and more hostile.  Good weather windows seem to be farther and fewer in between.  The weather here is certainly better than what Annapolis is currently facing.  Still, there is no doubt that the cold is stalking us from behind; and often it seems to be overtaking us.

     The destination by day’s end was Mile Hammock Bay, a truly unique anchorage.  It was a long day of motoring  between red and green markers… straight… red and green markers… turn… red marker… straight… red marker… straight… green marker… straight… on… and on… and on.

     And bridges… always the bridges.  Even more difficult to work around than bridge clearances are scheduled bridge openings.  If you have the luxury of a requested opening, then no problem.  But many of the bridges will not open during morning or afternoon rush hours, and many more only open every half hour or even only on the hour.

      There is a lot of estimating and guessing involved in trying to time arrivals to coincide with bridge openings during the day.  Multiple best estimates result in the frustrations of just missing a swing or lift bridge opening, or having to slow our pace to three knots so we don’t arrive at a bridge forty minutes prior to a scheduled opening on the hour.  

     Very few things raise the adrenaline rate like being forced to try to maintain a stationary position for more than half an hour in a current trying to carry you towards a giant iron bridge with only fifteen feet of vertical clearance when closed.

     As we made our way down the channel, dolphins approached.  Exit provided a momentary distraction for them as they inquisitively played around us for a few minutes, then continued on in the opposite direction we were going.  And on we continued… past marker… after marker… after marker.  Green… straight… red… ten degrees to port… straight… red… straight… red… gentle ninety degree turn to starboard… straight… green marker… straight… 

     Then… signs began to appear along both shores… every hundred meters or so at times.  We had seen lots of real estate signs along the way, and even some signs indicating restricted military areas, but these were much less ambiguous.  

     They read, “KEEP OUT – Live ammunition” , “KEEP OUT – Unexploded ordnance”, and “When lights are flashing – Live Fire Exercise in progress”.

Danger…

(who is Blackburn?)…

Unexploded Ordinance…

Do Not Enter

     The ICW cuts through Camp Lejeune, the United States Marine Corps’ largest training reservation in the world, which encompasses an eighteen mile area including the shores running along either side of us.  We had heard that, on occasion, boat traffic was delayed due to live fire exercises, but this was not the case today.  In fact, the only Marine we interacted with along the way was the person who opened the bridge for us at the Onslow Beach Swing Bridge.  

     However, the mangled hulks of smaller armored vehicles, which were riddled with the holes of small to medium sized rounds of ammunition, as well as the outlines of tanks across the horizon line on the shores of the small outer islands, and the intermittent appearance of groups of Marines onshore, building what appeared to be targets or staging areas for the next round of exercises, all testified as to the liberal amount of ammunition utilized by the USMC during training exercises.

     We steered into Mile Hammock Bay, a large open area just off the ICW at which is located a massive staging area for Marine exercises and thousand foot wide launching ramp for amphibious craft.

     Once again, we met up with Dena and James, who had arrived before us, and proceeded to consume far too much Kraken rum while watching the dramatic silhouettes of pelicans hunting against a stunning sunset.

James getting a shot of Kris getting a shot… (photo by James Lane)

No outboard… no grief

S/V Nomad at anchor

S/V Nomad at anchor

James capturing Kris capturing the shot(photo by James Lane)

No outboard… no grief

     James and Dena left the following day.  They had a secret anchor spot ahead just large enough for their boat.  We decided to stay put.  Another weather front was bearing down on us and the forecast called for heavy winds and shitty conditions for the immediate future.  Rather than take a chance on finding something farther along, we concluded that we were in as good a spot as we could hope for, so best to wait it out where we were.

     What that meant was, for 24 hours, we had the bay all to ourselves.  Well… more accurately, we were the only boat there.  There was also a brigade… or company… or platoon… a something of Marines ashore.  With a lot of people, came trucks and a backhoe.  

     They arrived in full combat attire.  After setting up an armed perimeter onshore complete with sniper, the Marines built what appeared to be a command post tent surrounded by razor wire; then sent patrols out into the surrounding area for the next couple of days.  All the while, this was accompanied by the sounds of explosions in the distance, occasional helicopter traffic, and Marine RIBs patrolling the river just outside the bay.

     To say the least, it was quite surreal sitting at anchor in the midst of all this, watching like the proverbial fly on the wall.

     For four nights, we sat at Mile Hammock Bay awaiting the crappy weather to pass, until another window opened up allowing us to continue in reasonable weather.

     At one point, we were startled to see a mahoosive barge being pushed by Coast Guard tug boat enter the bay.  With us watching anxiously, it slowly circled around us.  Once it was between us and the shore, it lowered four giant posts, or spuds, attached to the tug and barge.  They jammed down into the bottom, effectively securing the barge and tug in place.  The tug remained there overnight, looming beside us with penetrating spotlights trained on the barge, and then departed the next day… very strange.

     After four days, the weather cleared up enough for us to pick up anchor and make for Wrightsville Beach, thirty five miles to the south.

     As we continue further and further south, we are finding that increasing tidal ranges and the resulting currents can cause extensive shoaling in the rivers.  Consequently, navigational markers may be moved; or worse, actual depths both inside and outside the channels may not match the charts – both of which can lead to navigational moments of acute confusion.

     We have to be ever vigilant of the depth gauges in Exit’s cockpit.  Running aground in this area, which has been likened to running into a bowl of pudding, is a much more forgiving prospect than running aground on rocks or coral.  Typically it is more damaging to one’s schedule than one’s boat.  

     Nonetheless, as a rule, we try to avoid it.

     In fact, when we are navigating in waters where depth issues are a potential concern, we leave the lifting line for our centerboard attached to a winch.  If we have a situation where the depth gauge unexpectedly drops below eight feet, we can initiate an “emergency raising” of the centerboard.  In about fifteen seconds, we can decrease Exit’s draft from the six or so feet we normally have with the centerboard partially lowered to three and a half feet with it raised completely… an added insurance policy for a “didn’t see that one coming” situation.

December 6-8, 2017

    The Outer Banks were still calling to us, and it appeared that we had what looked to be a temporary weather window, so we again ventured out into Pamlico Sound.  

     Our destination was back across the sound to Ocracoke Island… the Outer Banks.  In stark contrast to so many of the posh resorts as well as luxuriously sprawling and lavishly decadent mansions along the Maryland and Virginia shoreline, tiny Ocracoke Island is both a diamond in the rough and a fresh breath of real life.

     We were being chased by ominous dark clouds that started to materialize on the horizon behind us about halfway into our crossing.  Conditions on the water were cold, but not ugly yet.  It seemed we might beat the weather to Ocracoke; but if so, it would not be by much.

    As we pushed onward, yet another reason to momentarily celebrate arose.  We had just passed our one thousand mile travel marker aboard Exit!  Another small but significant accomplishment to briefly revel in.

     Ocracoke has an exceptionally long and narrow entrance channel with depths of less than one foot outside that channel, so there is only one way to come in and you have to pay close attention to the markers.  The channel approaches from an angle so we couldn’t really see the small bay the town of Ocracoke is nestled up against until we were actually inside it.  

     The bay, called Silver Lake, is nearly circular and houses a couple of marinas, the main docks for the ferry (without a connecting bridge, you only get to Ocracoke by boat or plane), and some smaller docks for businesses.  On the far side of Silver Lake, opposite the ferry dock, were a few unoccupied sailboats at anchor.  During a busier time it would have gotten crowded very quickly, but we seemed to be the only transients here at the moment; so we had no trouble finding a spot with enough space to get out plenty of chain.

The storm, which had been hot on our tail, caught up with us as the anchor chain we had began paying out rattled over the bow roller.  Almost instantly, a cold wind kicked up and the clouds unleashed a torrent of rain on us.  By the time the anchor had been set and snubbed off, I was completely soaked.  At least we had made it.

     Ocracoke has a population of only about a thousand people, staunchly proud of their community’s small town character.  We had heard that, despite catering to a large number of tourists, life on Ocracoke Island has changed very little in the past 25 years.  

     It also has the distinction of being a location the famed pirate Edward Teach, better known as “Blackbeard”, spent some time at.  Ultimately, Blackbeard was killed by British Naval forces in a battle on Ocracoke Island.  It is rumored his treasure is buried somewhere here.  Incidentally, we found nothing…

     One thing we did learn about Ocracoke on our first wander around was that almost 100% of the Ocracoke businesses close down as the season winds down.  We could only find two bars, one general store, and a variety store open out of all the businesses we walked past.

Very old school pay phone

Xmas cheer with a beer

     The following day, we put on our foul weather gear and walked to the beach.  Isolated and completely undeveloped, it extends for nearly fifteen miles.  Apparently, it was recently voted the number-one beach in America, and we could see why.  Not a single structure could be seen in either direction from horizon to horizon.  Nor was there a single other person walking on the beach.  Aside from one SUV and one pickup truck driving onto the beach for a short time in the distance, we didn’t see a single soul the whole time we were there.  

Squadron of pelicans

Gulls patrolling the beach

Fortunately only footprints from this invasive species

     With the entire beach to ourselves, we watched dozens of pelicans diving into the water and flying intricately in squadron formations just inches above the water.  Even a couple of dolphins made an appearance, hanging out amongst the breaking waves just off the shoreline, patrolling back and forth.

     And, stretching out before us in every direction, was the vast Atlantic Ocean.  In the distance, we could barely make out on the horizon what appeared to be the jagged edges of big waves… turbulence kicked up from the Gulf Stream we suspected… quite intimidating… awesomely inspiring… little bit scary.

     We spent two nights at anchor at Ocracoke and could easily go back again.  While I wouldn’t relish the idea of sharing the space at Silver Lake with a shitload of other boats, I’m sure Ocracoke, in its’ non-hibernation state would be a blast to visit.

     It would have been easy to stick around for a bit longer, but we really needed to get moving again.  Hopefully, we would catch up with James and Dena in Oriental, North Carolina, to plan a potential offshore passage.   We hadn’t seen them since they sailed past while we were dead in the water on the Elizabeth River, outside Norfolk.

     Unfortunately, the weather forecast did not look promising.  The following day appeared the best prospect over the next four days, but it was hardly an optimal forecast.  Potentially, the 15+ knot wind carrying substantial amounts of rain would swing around from behind us to nearly in front of us over the course of the day, which meant we would see the forecasted three to four foot waves from all sides as well as probably experience some major current shifts along the way.

     When we lifted anchor Friday morning at 7:30am, a steady rain driven by piercing cold wind accompanied us.  Just outside of the bay, the chop immediately began to kick up, and the rain made it appear as though there was a blanketing fog all around us in the distance.

     We managed to time our trip through the channel almost perfectly, meeting the incoming ferry just after we had navigated through the narrow section and as we were arriving at the channel’s end.

     In the end, the day was rather uneventful and we were ambushed by no surprises, though the weather did it’s best to try to beat us into submission.  

     Very confused seas stacked up closely spaced waves that seemed to range between four and six feet tall.  The wind and rain were relentless.  During watches in the cockpit, all you could do was tuck inside the dodger as far as possible.  Still, after an hour, fingers and toes were numb.  The change of watch gave just enough time to duck below and get warmed up for an hour before, once again, putting multiple layers back on and climbing out into the hostile environment of the cockpit for another turn.

     As always, an unexpected visit by dolphins created a stir of excitement.  Though they stayed only briefly, any encounter wth these incredible creatures is always welcome.  And, though the dolphins did a remarkably good job of warming our hearts and moods, our asses were still pretty damn cold!

     At some point we realized, to our dismay, that Wilson, the pumpkin we had rescued from the water outside Norfolk, who had been been vigilantly standing watch at our stern ever since, must have toppled off the boat.  By the time we became aware, Wilson was nowhere to be seen.  We can only hope the dolphins who visited us may have found him and carried him to safety; or maybe we’ll stumble across him still adrift at some point in the future.

     We arrived in Oriental, NC tired, cold, and beaten; but we’d had our first taste of what could be expected when we ventured offshore in the not so distant future.  Looking forward to that… especially once we reach the tropics!

December 3-5, 2017

    Now that we had started moving again, we felt the squeeze of wanting to make up for lost time and keep pushing forward.  The decision to bypass the Dismal Swamp was, without a doubt, disappointing.  However, if this meant avoiding a high potential for more problems, it seemed like truly a small price to pay.  Better to stay flexible and adjust when necessary than to try to force something or feel compelled by an itinerary.

     In the big picture, the change in course was only short term; both routes converged at nearly the same place only a few days to the South anyway.

     Our new route immediately provided another first for us – we had to go through a lock system.  As the Great Bridge Lock was only dropping us about six inches in water level and wasn’t much longer than a football field, it was a pretty benign baptism.  Still, the procedures and process had to be sorted out and filed away in our brains for future reference.

Tying off to the bulkhead

Looking down the Great Bridge Lock

     A short test run of only five miles put us at the dock of Atlantic Yacht Basin where we opted to pay for a rare overnight tie up on the dock.  Marinas, when strategically utilized at reasonable rates, allowed for occasional major pit stops.  Top ups on diesel, petrol and water, holding tank pump-outs, could be done on the fly.  But plugging into shore power to fully charge batteries overnight, “luxurious” showers, laundry facilities, and easy access for provisioning and/or exploration were all benefits of the overnight stay.

     We could have sworn we saw the flashes of small explosions while we were tied to the bulkhead of the lock earlier, and we passed what appeared to be a Revolutionary War re-enactment in progress just before the marina.  Turns out we should have delayed our luxurious showers until after heading into town.  We arrived just as the Revolutionary War re-enactment was finishing up.  Oh well…we still managed to catch the annual Christmas Parade that evening.  With nearly a hundred floats participating, it was remarkably large in scale for what appeared to be a quite small community.

     Over the course of the next four days, we pressed forward somewhere between twenty and fifty miles each day.    The wide open expanse of the Chesapeake Bay, with its’ countless stretches of accessible smaller bays, rivers, and creeks, had given way south of Norfolk to narrow channels lined with endless markers to navigate through.  

     Even larger bays and rivers oftentimes were only one or two feet deep for miles outside of the dredged channels which had to be followed carefully on the charts. 

     The leisurely five knot pace we were traveling through the water at allowed us to enjoy the scenery around us.  The brightly fall-colored trees which had blanketed the Maryland shoreline were becoming more interspersed with pines.  Occasionally, dolphins would pass by; and there were always a fascinating assortment of birds.  Strangely unique pelicans, looking like prehistoric pterodactyls in flight, now became as common to see as the the majestic osprey and bald eagles just north.  

     But, one eye always had to be kept on the channel, making sure we didn’t wander astray or misinterpret a marker that had been moved to indicate recent shoaling.  Staying inside the channels and constantly monitoring the depth gauge became a relentless chore.  Fortunately, our timing this late in the season of South-bounders seems to have minimized the amount of other boat traffic we have had to deal with.

     After splurging for a marina at Atlantic Yacht Basin, we wanted to rely solely on our anchor (the cheapest method for overnight accommodation at our disposal) for a while.  

     One of the real challenges in traveling the ICW is planning your route so that, by the end of the day, you wind up at a location with adequate anchorage – regarding both location and space.   A really small anchorage area, which can be foiled by poor holding or even another boat arriving first, leaves few options as the sun is setting.  Without fallback options, having to pay for a marina slip becomes a costly prospect over time. 

     So we generally try to find wide open spots that assure us of plenty of space to put out lots of chain, or allow ourselves plenty of time to sort out a few possibilities once we arrive and can accurately see for ourselves.

     However, every now and then, there just aren’t many ideal options.  You either pull up well short of your intended progress, try to push extra hard to make a location, or simply try to get a sense of a descent possibility and just wing it…

     Our night anchored on North River was one of those “wing it” options.  We reached a point by the end of the day where we only had about an hour of sunlight left and a long stretch ahead with no options to anchor at.  Coinjock, about as far as we hoped to get, had a marina but we were bound and determined not to pay.  So, once we reached Coinjock, we decided to press forward.  We didn’t think we had far to get to the end of the channel, where North River looked promising.  

     We were fortunate to have rolled the dice.  Thirty minutes later, as the sun was disappearing over the horizon, we had just finished setting anchor.  Aside from one other sailboat in the distance, the only sign of human existence anywhere out in the darkness were the red and green flashing of navigation markers.  It was here that we also had the striking privilege of witnessing an incredibly large, orange hued “Supermoon” rising on the horizon.

    The North River feeds into Albemarle Sound.  We had heard warnings that even light winds could cause rough and sloppy seas on Albemarle Sound, and the forecasts looked ambiguous over the next few days.  Though it extends for fifty miles east to west, we would only be having to cross fourteen miles from north to south.

Misty morning

Sunrise

    Not wanting to stop our forward momentum, we made for Mateo in what turned out to be exceptionally good conditions and enjoyed finally having our depth gauge continuously hover around twenty feet without having to stay in the confines of a dredged channel along a straight highway of green and red markers.  It was a welcome change as we said goodbye to Virginia and crossed into North Carolina.

From Albemarle Sound into Pamlico Sound

The Outer Banks

Better than the straight and narrow

     Departing Mateo, after a quiet night at anchor, our eyes would widen as we entered Pamlico Sound, which dwarfed Albermarle Sound in size.  It is the second largest ICW estuary after the Chesapeake Bay, and has a reputation for potentially being one of the roughest bodies of water to navigate on the ICW.  

     We were fascinated with the idea of getting to the Outer Banks, a long and incredibly narrow strip of barrier islands facing the Atlantic Ocean that extend from Virginia all the way into North Carolina.  

     However, shallow depths throughout the northeast area of Pamlico Sound made it seem more logical to head for the western side.  Wyesocking Bay was nearly fifty miles away and made for an extremely long day; but it would offer us good protection if forecasted winds came to be.  

     There, we again found ourselves sharing the entire bay with only one other sailboat.  A small group of houselights well off in the distance did give us a visual reference that night (it’s surprising how disorienting it can be when you are swinging at anchor if you don’t have something on the horizon to use as a reference).  

     To be fair, we could have dragged hundreds of meters in any direction and not done anything more than possibly touch the bottom.

     Cold fronts moving through did kick up some wind; we were grateful to be in such an open area. 

     On one hand, there is something to be said for closed in, protected spaces that help to control exposure to wind and waves.  But, for Kris and I, it’s usually a no-brainer.  We are both adamant in preferring to put our trust in the equipment.  With the 55lb Rocna anchor properly set into the bottom and at least a hundred feet of 1/2” chain, Exit will sort herself out and ride even gale force winds comfortably.  A small, protected private bay is one thing; however, we’ll take an open bay with endless room to swing over a crowded and tight-packed marina any day.

Wide open waterways

Pamlico Sound Sunset

Sundowners

December 2, 2017

    With the raw water impeller, pump and drive coupling replaced, as well as the clogged silver mystery box bypassed, everything finally seemed good to go.  Nonetheless, we left the engine running for an hour to be sure. 

     The following morning, we picked up anchor for the first time since Thanksgiving Day.  With our new crew member Wilson aboard, we set out to pass under the very bridge we had been looking at for over a week – our first fixed bridge with only 65 foot vertical clearance.  

First Mate Wilson

     We may have began experiencing a bit of hallucinatory cabin fever during the time we were stranded at anchor sorting out our raw water problems.  

     On day eight, when we set out in the dinghy to pick up our replacement parts, we spotted something bright orange floating at the surface in the shipping channel.

     We ventured over and proceeded to fish one beleaguered survivor out of the water.  

     Subsequently, we learned Wilson’s amazing story:  he had apparently barely survived a gruesome Halloween massacre in late October after watching his friends and family carved alive by knives, only to fall into the water.  Floating helplessly in the currents for over a month, Wilson bobbed around until eventually being spotted and rescued by us.

     With no family or friends to return to, Wilson opted to stay aboard Exit indefinitely.  He has taken up residence at the stern deck, just behind the helm. 

     As a watch keeper, we doubt he adds much of a deterrent for would-be thieves, but what the Hell… you try to help out when you can.

     It’s hard to describe the anxiety of watching from the deck as your 62 foot mast travels under a bridge whose underside is not more than three feet above that.  The looming threat of sheering off masthead electronics or even the mast itself adds tension to the already exceptional difficulty of trying to gauge distance from that far below.

     Fortunately, the tides at this bridge aren’t a factor.  As we head further south, the tide changes start hitting three, six, even nine feet.  

     Bridge clearances are determined by the Army Corps of Engineers based upon the highest average tide.  Shifting influences of the moon can cause exceptional tidal changes which exceed that average.  What that means is, if you try to pass under a bridge during a very high tide the bridge clearance may, in fact, be less than shown on the charts.  Many bridges actually have markers installed showing the clearance height based upon the current waterline.

     Yet, even though we may see “64 Feet” on the marker and know our mast is two feet shorter, that separation seems minuscule at the moment of near-contact.  Consequently, we are overly cognizant of working around tidal schedules on days we have to pass under 65 foot bridges… after all, three feet of clearance is fifty percent better than two feet of clearance.

     As we pass safely under our first 65 foot bridge, Kris, at the helm, steadfastly refuses to look up.  But, once through,  instead of bearing right to the Dismal Swamp as originally planned, we instead head left towards the Virginia Cut.

     We have heard reports that tree branches along the Dismal Swamp have only been cleared to a 55 foot height this year – obviously a problem for our mast.  Other cruisers have reported that algae blooms and weed growth are so bad in the Dismal Swamp that prop fouling and engines overheating due to clogged raw water strainers are causing real problems.  One couple had to plumb the raw water intake directly to their water tank and sacrifice their fresh water just to continue.  I’d like to hope we’re done with raw water issues for 2017.  So, Exit… Stage Left.

Forward view down canal

Swing bridge closing behind us

Bridge closing behind us

Open on request

Not so bad…

December 1, 2017 

    Wow… and then November was gone.

     Eight days at anchor sitting amidst loading dock activity, interstate bridges, as well as barge and powerboat traffic seemed like an eternity.  

     During our first seven days, only one sailboat and a couple of small fishing skiffs had stopped and asked us if we needed assistance.  However, it quickly became apparent that, after a week of not moving, we had started attracting the attention of the local authorities.  We began getting visits from the marine police and even the Coast Guard.  All very friendly; just checking on our situation and status.

     Finally, we got a call mid-afternoon Friday from Chesapeake Yachts informing us that the parts had just been delivered… hallelujah!  

     An hour later I was back in the engine compartment installing our new raw water pump and drive coupling.

     Eventually, everything was back together and, thankfully, I had no extra clamps or screws that were not accounted for.  After one last check, the moment of truth was again upon us.  

     We started up the Perkins and hurried to the exhaust port where our hearts sank… no fucking water coming out… son of a bitch!  We shut it down… again.

     Throwing in the towel, calling the tow boat, and getting to a marina where we could get a mechanic aboard was not the outcome we had hoped for, but it was looking more and more likely.

     There had to be a block somewhere restricting flow in the raw water system.  If it couldn’t be located by morning, we would have to seriously reassess our situation.  So, once again, I commenced with disconnecting hose after hose trying to track down the location of the raw water blockage.

     After numerous repetitions of disconnecting a hose, cranking the engine, having water shoot out, reconnecting the hose, and moving to the next junction, it became apparent that water was entering a mysterious shiny silver box and was not coming out… hmmm… this seemed suspicious.

     Further investigation seemed to verify that the box had something to do with the already non-functional (and now obsolete) engine-driven portion of the old refrigeration system.  Perfect… this meant that it was not important… even arguably undesirable.  Thus, disconnecting and bypassing the mystery box (which I proceeded to do) should not theoretically have any adverse impact on our systems.

     So I re-routed the hoses going to and coming from the mystery box and, possibly in a subliminal act of semi-desperation, fired up the Perkins before hesitation and doubt had the chance to set in too deeply.

     And, damned if water didn’t start coming out of the exhaust port… abso-fucking-lutely!!!!

     All in all, we thought things turned out quite well.  The cost to us was $557 for parts and eight days stranded alongside a shipping channel with the industrial sounds of a shipping dock and interstate highway that roared like a passing twenty five knot wind.  But, in the end, we had managed to sort everything out ourselves, plus estimated we saved nearly two thousand dollars in marina and mechanic costs… two thousand freedom chips still in the cruising kitty!

November 29, 2017

    We have been told cruising aboard a sailboat is performing endless repairs in exotic locations.  I don’t think this was the exotic location that was envisioned.

     The location of our breakdown could have been much, much more dire.  The timing of our breakdown, however, couldn’t have been orchestrated at a worse time.  Because of the Thanksgiving holiday, we had to sit from Thursday until Monday before we could speak to any human on the phone that could check stock, take an order, or ship parts.

     Sunday afternoon James and Dena, aboard S/V Nomad, who had left Annapolis shortly after we did, arrived at our location.  Lacking a spare raw water pump for a Perkins engine aboard their boat, all they could do was offer a cheerful greeting and moral support as they sailed past.  We vowed to catch up.

The photo James took

Left in Nomad’s wake

     Monday finally came.  We had not left the boat.  There had been no problems; at least after four days we knew with confidence that our anchor was well set.  Undoubtably, passing power boats, because of their wakes, caused the most pitching about for Exit.  But it was the passing tugs pushing barges, especially at night, that we found to be the most intimidating.  You could hear them coming, even over the din of the I-64 Bridge noise.  Oftentimes, it was the flood of a powerful spotlight beaming in momentarily through the windows indicating the tugboat captain had seen us at anchor. 

    After four days, we were starting to go a bit stir crazy not making any progress.

     When we finally were able to start speaking with people on the phone Monday morning, as was already expected, the pump was readily available;  it was the damn drive coupling, specific to the Perkins engine, that was not so easily located.  

     We called TowBoat U.S. to find out what our options were; but, after talking to them, we decided to stay put where we were.  A tow could have been arranged, and we were even insured for it, but the only option would have been to get a tow to a marina which would then charge us $100 a day to tie up at.  We rolled the dice on still being able to work through this ourselves.  If necessary, we could arrange for the tow later.

     Finally, by the end of Tuesday, we had mixed news from Trans Atlantic Diesel, in Virginia.  We were ecstatic to receive confirmation that the parts we needed had been located and ordered.  On the other hand, we were mortified to learn that it would be two more days before they received the parts and another day before we got them (any later and we’d have to wait through another weekend, which we did not want to think about).

     Waiting for parts was nothing new, even for us.  At least we weren’t looking at six weeks again!  But, after four days of sitting already, we hoped things would materialize with a bit more haste.

     In the interim time, we needed to sort out where we were going to get the parts shipped to, once Trans Atlantic Diesel had them.  “S/V Exit, at anchor 1000 feet North of the I-64 Bridge” just wasn’t gonna cut it for UPS.  Our best bet was Chesapeake Yachts, a small yard right on the other side of the I-64 Bridge, which had a long dock accessible to our dinghy, unlike the barge docks across the river.

     After calling and explaining our predicament, the initially suspicious Vice President of Chesapeake Yachts, Kymberly, grew sympathetic and offered to let us tie our dinghy to their dock and ship the parts to the office there.  

     Considering we hadn’t stepped off the boat since Hamptons Road, a week ago, we took the opportunity Wednesday to go ashore and catch an Uber taxi to pick up some provisions and extra tools that were obviously going to be needed over the long term.

November 23, 2017 – Approximately 12:00 noon

    Passing through the Gilmerton Lift Bridge, which had very kindly been raised from thirty five to seventy three feet for us, we still seemed to have barely enough room to squeak under.  This did not bode well for our overall blood pressure.

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It had taken us only three hours to get here.  On the up side, we had made great time and experienced no navigational issues along the way.  On the down side, that efficiency had our arrival coinciding with the highest point of a very high tide.

We figured that we still had about ten minutes before reaching the I-64 Bridge, so we continued on, with the intention of at least sussing out what lie ahead before deciding how to proceed.

Our Perkins engine control panel, mounted just below the main hatch behind the first companionway step, has a buzzer that sounds when ignition key is in the “on” position just before hitting the start button and after shutting it down.  If you are prepared for it, the sound is merely annoying.  If the engine alarm suddenly triggers while you are underway, the the incessant buzzing immediately has a more pressing and more ominous overtone to it.

When the engine alarm buzzer sounded moments after we passed under the Gilmerton Lift Bridge, it was one of those WTF? moments.

A quick check revealed an engine temperature red light, which was confirmed by the position of the needle on the temperature gauge, just left of the light.  We had no choice but to immediately shut down the engine rather than risk causing far more serious damage.

With the engine shut down, we were merely coasting along.  Our speed hadn’t died immediately so we still had steering and there was no wind to speak of that could push us sideways.  If there was any current at all in the water, it may have been helping us to continue forward momentum.

No boat traffic to be seen in front of or behind us meant we had some time to sort things out.  However, our speed had already started dropping, so the first priority was getting up some sail so we could maintain helm control.  The genoa is a huge sail but it is on a roller fuller, and far faster to deploy than the mainsail; so we decided to unfurl just enough of the genoa to keep us moving.

Immediately ahead of us was a decent sized area off to the side of the shipping channel.  I suggested we temporarily drop the anchor there, but Kris noticed on the charts that it was actually a turning area for the tugs and barges.  So we continued onward until we reached the last option… a space to the right of the channel just opposite a large industrial dock.

Only a thousand feet further ahead, loomed the Interstate 64 Bridge with its reported 65 foot clearance… we had no intention of sailing under that bridge.  I hustled to the bow and dropped the anchor with only about ten meters of chain out – just enough to temporarily keep us safely in place so we could focus on the ailing Perkins.

Once the engine cooled off and both the oil and coolant levels checked out ok, we started the Perkins again. It fired up without any hesitation; but, we immediately noticed there was no water coming out of the exhaust port (a rookie mistake that we didn’t notice that  immediately after hearing the temperature alarm, before shutting off the engine).

As is typical of many marine engines, our diesel has an internal freshwater coolant circuit which also utilizes a separate raw salt water circuit to assist in temperature control (instead of a standard radiator and fan like a car).  Sea water is pumped into the engine and then spit out an exhaust port.  It would be ok running our cool engine for a short period without the raw water system but the rubber impeller inside the pump which forces the salt water through can disintegrate in less than a minute if allowed to run dry.  So, assuming that our impeller had no water getting to it, we had no choice but to shut down the engine again.

Then… began the process of troubleshooting.

The obvious suspect was the impeller itself.  We had found a plethora of spare impellers in one of the lockers when we conducted our initial inventory of Exit while on the hard.  But, I must confess, having hoped to gain the assistance of someone who knew exactly what they were doing the first time I tried a switchout, the impeller had not been changed since we climbed aboard.

So be it… no time like the present.  Now would be the time to learn.

The process was rather straightforward, if not messy.  With the guidance of the Perkins Diesel Shop Manual (graciously left on Exit) and my Nigel Calder mechanic’s bible (which explains how to fix nearly everything on a boat), I got the old impeller out and, sure enough, it was in pretty bad shape.  Eventually, I emerged from the engine compartment cramped, sore, and aching… though, victorious.  Exit had a brand new impeller and now we could get moving again.

Confidently, we turned the key and the old Perkins revved to life.  But, alas… as hard as we looked and as much as we willed it, no water came out of that damn exhaust port… shitballs! 

Back to the drawing board… now, on to find Problem #2.

A blockage preventing the raw water from flowing seemed like the next likely candidate.  So, the next step was to start at the through hull (*see inset below) and work forward, disconnecting hoses to try to verify how far the water was getting.  After wrestling with what seemed like endless double hose clamps and stubborn hose ends, I determined that raw water was getting to the pump (which housed the impeller) but not any further.

Through Hulls & Seacocks

A through hull is one of many intentional holes put in the side of the boat (literally through the hull) below the waterline. It is connected to a manually controlled open/close valve, or the seacock. This allows sea water, or raw water, to be plumbed to various places on the boat for different purposes including engine or generator cooling, water makers, raw water plumbing options for the sinks/toilet, deck hoses (for cleaning anchor chains or the decks), and even salt water showers for above or below deck.

In the case of engine and generator cooling, sea water is used to cool the freshwater cooling system and is an integral part of the system. Without the raw water flow, the engine overheats.

In the case of plumbing, typically the idea is to utilize the endless supply of water outside your boat as much as possible and, in turn, minimize the use of your very limited and precious fresh water supply aboard.

I recently saw a statistic that the average American uses approximately one hundred gallons of water per day!!! We have the benefit of a pair of one-hundred gallon water tanks aboard Exit, which is actually a quite a lot of water to carry on a sailboat of this size. Obviously, we have modified our water habits substantially enough that we don’t have to fill the tanks every day. However, I doubt we will acheive the Spartan level of consumption reached by some liveaboard cruisers of less than one gallon of freshwater used per day per person… at least any time in the near future.

I was 100% certain that I had installed the impeller correctly… but I had also just yesterday read that the hardest error to recognize is when your memory of how to do something correctly is faulty, because you’re sure you’re doing it right (words spoken by the guru himself, Nigel Calder).  So, certain I had done it right, I began to second-guess whether or not I had actually done it right.

But, when I removed the hose connected to the pump’s output and had Kris turn over the engine, it became apparent that the impeller wasn’t even turning!

Off came the impeller cover again.  Everything looked ok… which meant the pump was going to have to come off.

Removing the raw water pump revealed the end of the camshaft which, thankfully, did turn freely when the engine was turned over.  But, it also revealed the end of the pump’s drive shaft and the metal drive coupling bolted to the end of the camshaft – both of which were completely trashed.  The rectangular metal tab on the coupling had basically been lathed into a round post over ten or more years use by the slotted, and now very damaged, pump drive shaft… shit!

Coupler from pump to camshaft

The coupler I removed…

… and the spare I found

A brief rummaging through the parts lockers uncovered Exit’s original raw water pump, which had exactly the same damage to it; but no spare pump we could use was to be found.  Had this been an emergency, we may have been able to “McGyver” a temporary solution, allowing us to get out of a tight spot and limp into a marina, by re-routing our raw water deck/anchor wash pump to supply the raw water for the engine.

What I was hoping to find…

The drive shaft on our pump

And the same damage on a spare

As it was, the situation certainly wasn’t ideal but it was far from an emergency.

At our location, the river was only about 800 feet wide, and probably 500 feet of that was taken up by the shipping channel and the docking area for the barges directly across from us, which left us with about 300 feet of space between the buoy, beyond which barges would be passing, and the shoreline.

Seems like quite a bit of space, initially.  But, at anchor, we have to leave room to swing potentially 360 degrees around.  Exit’s length creates a one hundred foot circle, not including the length of anchor chain that has been paid out.  Considering our proximity to a busy shipping lane, and the unknown effects changing currents or wind would have funneling through, we thought it prudent to have at least sixty feet of chain out.  This made the perimeter of our anchor circle now 220 feet, potentially putting us within about forty feet of the shore or forty feet of the shipping channel, depending on the wind.  Just enough room to squeeze in… it seemed.

The one absolute certainty we faced was that there was no way in Hell we would be locating a replacement raw water pump and drive coupler on Thanksgiving Day.  Progress on the engine would be at a standstill until parts could be located.  This was going to be our Thanksgiving anchorage.

So we put out sixty six feet of chain, or twenty meters, confident that our scope was sufficient.  At the same time, we cringed at the fact that, without an engine, we could not back down on the anchor to properly set it.  For the first time, we’d have to have faith that our trusty 55 pound Rocna anchor would set itelf.  No worries… we were outside the shipping channel, on a secure anchor not going anywhere, and relatively protected from any wind or weather caused wave action.

Sitting in the cockpit, having post-anchor beers, the scene was truly surreal.

On the opposite side of the channel, industrial docks stretched all the way around the bend to our left.

Just across from us, gigantic barges and stout tugboats were tied up to a huge ten foot tall dock.  Sections of steel piping that had to be fifty feet across were offloaded from one barge by a massive crane.

The I-64 bridge, a thousand feet to the south, buzzed and hummed like an angry beehive with non-stop traffic.

And, every so often, a barge that could probably fit fifty Exits side by side on its’ deck, would pass by, propelled through the water by a stocky four deck tall tugboat.

It was our first Thanksgiving aboard Exit; and, despite the current situation, we certainly felt we had a lot to be thankful for.  Kris’ experimental holiday dinner was a smashing success – “fake duck”(a soy based product), or F-uck as we were introduced to it as by James and Dena, really did have the texture and taste of duck.

So, there we were – at anchor on our sailboat enjoying a “Thanksgiving F-uck in the industrial park”.  People keep saying it’s livin’ the dream… well it’s a pretty fucking weird dream!

November 23, 2017 

    We didn’t want to get too late of a start Thanksgiving Day, but we also didn’t have that far to go.  With no idea of what we would encounter for boat traffic, we estimated at least three hours and no more than five hours to get to the bridges, which was not ideal timing-wise.  But it would give us a minimum of two hours at the other end to sort out an anchorage just above the lock before sunset; and that would prepare us for a leisurely motor through the Dismal Swamp the following day.

The chart designated “65 foot bridge clearance” of Interstate 64 is based upon the average high tide.  At noon on Thanksgiving Day, the actual high tide would be one-tenth of a foot higher than that… not a problem.  But Kris and I did discuss the fact that, when talking about having only two feet of clearance below sheering off all of your masthead electronics, suddenly any extra space you can gain by a falling tide would be, at least, psychologically significant.

So we found comfort in the fact that, from noon forward, we would be gaining extra bridge clearance thanks to a falling tide.

As we worked our way through the massive main harbor area of Norfolk we were immediately struck by how little boat traffic we encountered.  Navy and commercial ships, tugboats, huge barges, fishing trawlers, private powerboat and sailboats that were all expected could be counted on our fingers today.  If we were lucky, our holiday timing would provide both minimal traffic and minimal stress.

As we rounded Hospital Point, we also reached Mile Zero, the “official” beginning of the 1,243 mile long Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway which we had actually already been following since departing from Annapolis.

We motored steadily along at about five and a half knots, passing through a very surreal environment.  As we came around the first bend, to our left stretched a line of a dozen or more behemoth Navy ships secured to the docks side by side –  four aircraft carriers, destroyers, supply ships, even a surgical hospital ship; all towering above us as we passed each one.  Cruising past the largest naval installation in the world, and homeport for the U.S. Navy’s Atlantic Fleet, aboard a forty six foot sailboat was both quite intimidating and exhilarating.

Pelican patrol

Easily distracted

Intimidating view out the port

Aircraft carrier docked

Continuing forward, naval vessels became scattered amongst more commercial looking ships at rest to either side of us.  However, regularly spaced signs constantly reminded us that we were passing a Naval Facility – No Trespassing.  The signs, as well as the Navy patrol boat with flashing blue lights at rest alongside the channel (identical to one that continually patrolled up and down the bay in front of the helicopter hangers at Willoughby Bay), provided enough deterrent from considering any shore landings.

It must have been after somewhere between ten and fifteen miles that the shoreline began to take on a much more commercial and industrial appearance.  Naval vessels, which had overshadowed everything else, began giving way to Goliath barges and cargo ships.  Towering cranes and strange, monstrous wheeled machines lined the docks.  Piles of steel piping, mountains of coal, stack upon stack of shipping containers, dwarfed only by their own staggering numbers – quite the change in scenery for us from the week just prior.  Overshadowed only by the military’s continued presence, the merchant fleet’s endless loading and unloading hundreds of thousands of tons of cargo at a time dominated our attention from every direction.

Gilmerton Bridge… our official baptism through a lifting bridge (that wasn’t already up).  Really, it’s probably not going to make anyone’s Top Ten list of undertakings.  But, there is still a certain sense of awe to be had in calling the tender in the bridge control room on VHF radio to arrange for the bridge to open, allowing your sailboat to pass.  There is a certain mystique in stopping both directions of vehicle traffic, just to make room for your mast.  Ten years ago I might have been one of the people cursing the inconvenience of being stopped for the whims of a sailboat.

The Gilmerton Bridge Tender working the 8 to 5 shift on Thanksgiving Day couldn’t have been a more friendly person to interact with.  And Hollywood couldn’t have provided a voice-over with a more authentic sounding Southern Belle accent than the voice of the woman we spoke with.  It was a good thing, too; because we’d need definitely need to be in a calm state of mind five minutes from now…

November 22, 2017

    We opted to duck into Willoughby Bay, located on the South side of the harbor just behind the Norfolk Naval Base, when we arrived two days ago. It was nearby, well away from the shipping channel (which can get very bumpy due to boat, barge, and ship wakes), and reportedly offered good anchor holding.

Nearly the entire entrance to Willoughby Bay is only one to four feet deep, with the exception of a quite narrow channel that runs thousands of yards around the back of Willoughby Spit, guiding boats into the ten to fifteen foot depths of the bay itself.  The boundaries of the channel are marked with buoys; entering the bay red markers designate the right edge of the channel and green markers indicate the left edge.

In retrospect, we should have better researched and studied the entrance before trying to navigate through it.  However, our focus had become somewhat distracted on the overall approach into the Norfolk area,  monitoring the boat and ship traffic, as well as the constant radio chatter.

The Waterway Guide made references to shoaling on the left hand side of the channel, and our Navionics charts even had updated information added on the charts reporting as little as 2 foot depths at points on the channel’s left hand edge.

We were caught us off guard when we noticed, shortly after entering the channel, one of the green markers ahead (that we would normally pass to the right of) appeared on the charts to be about eighty percent over on the right hand side of the channel.  As this seemed quite irregular, confusion immediately set in followed immediately by a discussion.

Following a quick conference and look at the iPad screen, we concurred that while the placement of the marker seemed strange as Hell, it’s color dictated that we should squeeze all the way over to the right hand edge of the channel, keeping to the right of the mysteriously located green marker.

We had just passed the prior green marker and were less than halfway to the marker in question when Kris sounded the Oh Shit! alarm.  By the time I had seen where she was looking and turned to face the cockpit instruments, the depth gauge had plummeted from twelve feet to five feet.  Before I could even speak, the gauge dropped to four feet…

The instant drop of forward momentum and growing-more-familiar-each-time sound of the underside of Exit’s hull sliding along mud immediately preceded the depth gauge display coughing out “- – -“ in protest.

During both our previous too-close encounters with the Chesapeake bottom, I was at the helm.  But, in both instances, we were lucky enough to be able to slide immediately back off into deeper water… this time we were stopped dead.

Kris gunned the engine and tried turning off both directions but nothing moved… same with reverse.

Our centerboard was partially down.  Attempting to raise it at this point proved pointless as it was already in the mud; the line wouldn’t budge.  Furthermore, because the centerboard pivots at the forward edge and swings downward from the back, if we continued to try to back off the bottom there was a high risk of simply jackknifing the centerboard open even more, causing it to jam further down into the mud… so forward it was.

They say that, because sailboat engines are often run for short periods of time and are typically operated only under very low loads, they can be plagued with a buildup of carbon inside the engine.  Occasionally, pushing the engine to higher rpms (we typically motor at about 2000 rpm though our Perkins is rated for 4000 rpm) and running it under a higher load is actually good for it… they say.

Suffice to say, Kris initiated a thorough cleaning out of the old Perkins engine right then and there.  Uttering a bevy of expletives, she must have blown most of the carbon right out of that engine as she pushed up the throttle.  But, amidst the barrage of colorful language and roaring of the Perkins as the revs topped 4000, I’ll be damned if Exit didn’t start creeping forward a bit.  As we ever so slowly inched off the shoal, we could start breathing again.  But it would be fair to add that the Perkins engine settled back down well before Kris’ heart did!

She vowed never to traverse this channel again as we slowly made our way into Willoughby Bay, hugging the right side of the channel the entire rest of the way.  Of course, that was merely wishful thinking as we would need to get back out of the bay via that same channel.

At the opposite side of the bay, the entire shoreline is comprised of tarmacs and massive hangers housing dozens and dozens of Naval helicopters.  We dubbed Willoughby Bay “The Hornets Nest”, as there was a non-stop 24 hour agitated whirring and buzzing of helicopter traffic coming and going.

In addition, the Navy conducts daily helicopter training exercises over the water with frogmen.  For hours on end, only a few thousand feet away from where anchored amongst a half dozen or so other sailboats, the training helicopter would circle around, descend to just above the water, drop a frogman into the water, lower a line while hovering above, pick up the frogman, then circle around and repeat the exercise.

The prop wash from these helicopters can be 170mph; hovering as low as only about ten feet higher than our mast height, they are potentially a catastrophic risk to sailboats… essentially an extremely localized hurricane with big guns.  We had heard about these helicopter exercises and obviously stayed well clear.  Fortunately, the Navy was also very cognizant of the presence of nearby sailboats and avoided us during their low flybys.

The following day, we made it our mission to get to a marina.  We were still good on water and fuel but could always use the opportunity to top up, just for good measure.  However, our holding tank situation was now critical.  Since our failed pump out attempt at Mobjack Bay, too many days had passed and we feared another overflow fiasco was eminent.

Of course, the marinas in Willoughby Bay didn’t have pump out facilities.  This meant the closest options were back across Hampton Roads Bay, probably ninety minutes away… this also meant navigating the Willoughby Bay channel again.

On the way out, we hugged the channel’s absolute left-most sliver of edge we could maintain a line on, all the while creeping along in a state of total paranoia with eyes glued to both the Navionics screen and depth gauge.  Kris vowed for the second time never to traverse this channel again!

Ninety minutes later we made a pass by Blue Water Marina’s fuel dock, came back around, tied up, and viola!  Diesel and water… no drama.  The pump out would not be quite as simple.

Maryland pump out facilities almost always seemed to be located either along a long “T” at the end of the dock or, even better, right at your toe rail where ever you’re anchored when the pump out boat comes around!

Here in Virginia, placement seems to follow a strategy that favors a shorter plumbing route, locating the pump out machine close to land, on the bulkhead, or at a shoreside slip.

Getting back into the spot at Blue Water Marina was no problem – a ninety degree right turn off the fuel dock and straight back a few hundred feet.  Getting out was possibly going to be a bitch.  We really didn’t relish the idea of backing all the way out, but there was no possible way we were going to get turned around in that space.  The overall width of the channel couldn’t have been much more than fifty or sixty feet, giving us a margin of less than ten feet on either side while broadside if we attempted a turnaround.  That was a no-brainer!

In the end, we opted for the clever sure-bet over any claim of salty courage or seafarer’s prowess.  Humbly requesting the assistance of two of the marina employees, we added a couple of extra long dock lines and physically walked Exit around in a 180 degree pivot… not pretty, but effective.

So we departed Blue Water Marina almost two hundred dollars poorer.  But we now had 200 gallons of diesel in the fuel tank, both 100 gallon water tanks full, and (yay!) an empty 50 gallon holding tank – something we would come to fully appreciate as circumstances played out over the course of the next two weeks.  And, as an added cherry on top of the sundae, Kris even sweet-talked the manager at the marina into letting us use their shower facilities… yes!  A long… hot… shower!

On the down side, every potential anchorage around Hampton Roads we checked out was either too shallow, too narrow to put out enough chain, too much in the way of traffic, or already occupied.

This left us two options.  Option One:  take a chance on finding anchorage in one other area; but if we crapped out, the sun would be already setting, leaving us to navigate the harbor at night… not ideal.  Or Option Two:  return to Willoughby Bay and tuck in just in time for sundowners… Kris immediately saw through this rouse and recognized what Option Two really meant.

On the way in, as we hugged the channel’s absolute right-most sliver of edge we could maintain a line on, all the while creeping along in a state of total paranoia with eyes glued to both the Navionics screen and depth gauge, Kris vowed for the third time never to traverse this channel again!

The following day, one day before Thanksgiving, we left Exit at anchor after having another small pod of dolphins come swimming directly up to us while we sat in the cockpit.  We headed ashore in the dinghy for what was only our second “touristy” activity in four months (the first was attending the Eastport/Annapolis Annual Tug Of War event just before departing).  This excursion was to the Langley/NASA Museum in Hampton Roads which had amazing displays including actual fighter jets and helicopters hanging from the ceiling, lunar landers and planetary exploration craft, and even an IMAX theatre currently showing “Hurricane 3-D”, which couldn’t be missed.  All that and a trip to the nearby grocery store… ya gotta love Uber!

Langley/NASA Museum

Langley/NASA Museum

     We couldn’t help but notice when we returned to Exit how quiet it seemed the Hornet’s Nest had become.  By nightfall, and throughout the night, the constant droning sound of helicopters we had become accustomed to ceased entirely.  We surmised that Navy pilots were high enough up the totem pole that they must get at least two nights off for Thanksgiving.

Our plan was to set out Thanksgiving Day, make our way past Portsmouth and anchor before reaching the lock, just above the entrance to the long anticipated Dismal Swamp.  This route would also require us to pass through our first lifting bridge, as well as a bridge with 65 foot clearance.  We have been assured that our mast has a 63 foot clearance; but, up to this point, even 180 foot bridges seem close when traveling under them!

At 9:00am Thanksgiving morning, we lifted anchor and set off in search of the Dismal Swamp.

On the way out, as we hugged the channel’s absolute left-most sliver of edge we could maintain a line on, all the while creeping along in a state of total paranoia with eyes glued to both the Navionics screen and depth gauge, Kris vowed for the fourth time never to traverse this channel again!

…this time I actually believed her.

November 20, 2017 

    Virginia is turning out to be more and more of a proving ground with each passing day.  A number of times in conversation over the past few months we have heard the comment, “So this is your first boat and you’re heading down the ICW, eh?”  We couldn’t figure out what they meant.  After all, we weren’t headed offshore or north to Newfoundland.

But there are indisputable comforts, conveniences, and security blankets to be had in the relative safety of Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay, and the extensive river systems feeding into her, that we are quickly learning may not be universal.

All in all, really nothing more than growing pains, learning curves, and the initial shock of first time experiences that will grow easier to process, digest, navigate, and sometimes tolerate with repeated exposure.

***

We had the incredible deja vu experience of a pod of inquisitive dolphins swimming just off our stern as we approached Norfolk.  Although, my reaction to seeing them, as well as the noise one of them made as it surfaced, nearly caused Kris to have a heart attack.  She was already on frayed nerves at the wheel trying to make sense of the shipping traffic and immediately thought a boat was coming up behind us!

After I received a smack for contributing to her pounding heart rate, we reveled in the dolphins’ company while they hung around us.  There are a handful of creatures whom any interaction with is truly a magical experience, and dolphins have to be right up there near the top of the list.  After a short time, the dolphins headed off and it was back to business.

Any traffic at all can be nerve racking when the traffic consists of cargo and cruise ships the size of a football field moving at 25 knots which can appear on the horizon in front of you and disappear on the horizon behind you in ten minutes time. Yet, we both were surprised with how little traffic we actually saw on the water as Norfolk grew near.

That having been said, Hampton Roads (right across the harbor from Norfolk) is home to the largest Navy base in the world.  Once there, we knew navy patrol boats, aircraft carriers, destroyers, helicopters, and even submarines would be added to the list of potential encounters.

Paper navigation charts make the waterway entering Norfolk look like a confusing mess of markers and channels, though in reality it was quite straightforward.  While I don’t buy the argument that paper charts are obsolete, the benefit of having our recently purchased iPad in the cockpit has become immeasurable.

The Navionics program that we use superimposes our GPS position onto a digital version of the paper chart that can easily be zoomed in or out for reference.  That, in combination with looking around and actually seeing what is represented on the iPad screen, makes for much simpler and safer navigating.  The iPad doesn’t blow away like a paper chart in the cockpit would, plus it displays the coordinates of our position and current speed, which we can compare to our onboard instruments.

As we crossed over the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel at the Southwestern-most tip of the Chesapeake Bay and entered the Hampton Roads Harbor, Norfolk to our left and Hampton Roads to our right, the four and a half month Chesapeake Chapter of our adventure came to an official close.  From this point on, everything would be further South than we had ever sailed.