Kathleen gave me the divorce papers to sign not long after I arrived. I signed them, making things pretty real. Now we have had appraisals done for D Street and Peaks and are making up lists of our property. I have discussions with friends about how to go forward, but it still seems like another world, not quite real.

It is good to be working with Adam, my friend with whom I have done several renovations and kitchens. Tired at the end of the day.

The first time I went back on board the Beau Tide for a sail the bearings on the alternator began a deathly wail. I removed it after the sail and brought it into town to have a guy take a look at it. He said the windings and brushes were like new, so he replaced only both sets of bearings and I got it back in the boat a week later. Since then I’ve used the boat to get back to S. Portland, where I worked on my Nutshell Pram, got a haircut, did my shopping, and picked up my preferred island bike. I hope to bring the Nutshell out toi the island soon, so I can sail and row out to the mooring rather than using the Achilles all the time. The Achilles is great though; I finally got good contact cement and blue patching material from a local dealer and replaced a number of leaking patches- now the tubes stay firm for a week at least! I wish I had been as successful with repairs the first and other times…

Now S,unday, August 8, I am really back on board- living. I had to move out of the cottage on Peaks near the end of July because it is being rented for the next six weeks. I have been hanging on Lare’s mooring about 200 yards to the east of the ferry landing on Peaks, using the Achilles and tying that up at Jones’ Landing. Mostly that has worked fine, except for the occasional bouts of feeling isolated and the need to go to the library to check my email. I have felt the need to use the blog as a journal, to track my feelings concerning the divorce, but have not done so because these needs do not necessarily coincide with my access to wi-fi. I think, though, that I have come up with a solution. I have signed up for Virgin Mobile Broadband2Go, so I can now get online any time I have cell-phone access. I pay by the month, skipping the 2 year contract required by Verizon. I have only purchased 1GB for 30 days for $40, but can spend $60 for 5 GB if I need the extra usage. We’ll see…

So Boatquest has become another quest, one for a new life, an understanding of the past and a working out of the present. I hope that it can help me to move forward and help others to think about their own lives with some added perspectives. How personal can I be on this public space? That is the issue, one which I will feel along slowly.

I have had two outings on the boat since moving aboard. Last weekend I took my friends Mark and Willow ( a couple, each with a youngish child, each single, exploring a future together), Mark’s seven-year-old daughter, Truly, and Willow’s long-time friend, Cathy for an overnight. The boat sleeps 6, with two double and two single berths, so things were tight, but doable for one night. We sailed up to Little Chebegue, just a mile east of Peaks, for a afternoon on a sandy beach, that headed a couple of islands east to the far side of Cliff Island, where we dropped a hook in a large harbor protected from the prevailing summer southwesterlies. Sunday we headed to that “back shore” of Long Island where there is a beautiful sandy beach protected by tiny islands and ledges that form a fair weather harbor to break the Atlantic swells. It was a lazy weekend with no stress and we all enjoyed the togetherness and conversation. Willow left me a book by Elizabeth Gilbert, who has evidently written a best-seller “Eat, Pray, Love,” but who’s newer book is Committed, “A Skeptic Makes Peace with Love.” Her foreign lover’s visa problems force them to get married against their former resolutions not to. They both have had fairly devastating divorces and re-marriage seemed frightening. To spend the months that they must wait while waiting for the bureaucracy to proceed at it usual glacial space Gilbert explores the history of current state of marriage in the western world. I think Willow had read this book because she and Mark have been single for years and they want to explore where their future lies. I t is interesting that my son, Carl, is considering the reasons for marriage while living with his long-term girlfriend.

Marriage does seem central to most of our lives, whether we are happily married,  struggling with a failed (unhappy) marriage, single and considering a future with a partner, in the middle of a breakup, or dealing with the history of  a divorce. Gilbert tells us that studies have shown that, other than the death of a spouse. divorce is the most stressful event for an individual.

I spent the last three days with Carl. We drove down to Boston Thursday to attend a Red Sox game. Carl had friends from the US Disabled Ski Team who were throwing out the “first pitch” and Carl was invited to come as well. We ended up sitting in the NESN box, with free food and drink and great seats. Carl and I had time to talk during the four hours of driving, but we could not, of course, discuss the subject most pressing for me, the divorce. We did talk about his relationship with Mary, marriage as a concept, the possibility of fatherhood for paraplegics, starting school, the idea and importance of community, as well as the sailing trip planned for Friday and Saturday. Our trip was almost a repeat of the one the previous weekend, but we did go ashore on Cliff I. to walk the charming community of summer homes on dirt roads. We had lunch at the cafe/general store at the public landing and enjoyed 2 days of great breezes. Last night I stayed at the dock under the bridge in South Portland and had dinner with David and Jill in the West End. Now I head back to Peaks to let the neighbors know the house is for sale, and that if they have any interest, now is the time, before a brokers is involved, to make an offer. Selling the property is another topic to be explored later for anxiety and divorce tension.

The after noon was taken up with a tour of New Bedford, Fairhaven, and getting charts for the rest of the way home. A great grilled dinner and with Mike and Chris and a cozy bed felt wonderful. Early the next morning was total fog and the last bit of an outgoing tide. Again I blessed the GPS for taking the nervousness out of navigation in the fog, not that I didn’t plot a course. I had an invigorating sail right up to the entrance markers for the canal, when the wind dropped and a motor seemed preferable anyway. By then, 0830, the tide had stared to rise and I entered the canal with a fair tide that added 3 knots to my speed. Entering land, the fog dissipated and I could see the banks of the canal and the many fishermen. Only one trawler yacht passed, heading West, for the whole hour passage.  I had hoped to continue straight on through to Gloucester, but the wind had come up out of the NNW. I tried to pinch and make my course, but around 1300 had to admit defeat and head west to Situate Harbor, the closest anchorage to my route. By then the wind had come back out of the west with vigor and the tide was ebbing again. I could barely make headway against the chop and the wind. I hate the small engine in these situations- when I want to make a calm anchorage but the boat will only manage about two knots in nasty conditions- it takes hours to go only a few miles. I finally did make the anchorage and found that renting a moorings was the rule here. Forty bucks for the mooring, launch service, and showers. At least I was out of the wind and waves.

I did go into town after a quick dinner but could find no cozy place to get wi-fi. I ended up at a picnic table outside the harbormaster’s office until the no-see’ms descended with the sun. I think they are following me as I head north with the warmth. I did get a nice ice cream Sunday tho…

The next day I motorsailed to Gloucester, where Western Harbor holds the entrance to Blynman Canal and the Annisquam River that cuts through Cape Ann. A last bascule bridge started the canal, but there was only a short wait. I passed through and found the depth much greater than the stated 4.5′, which was encouraging. I stopped for fuel and water, then continued up the river, which is lined with lovely cottages and moorings holding everything from skiffs and small outboards to lovely larger sailboats. At the eastern end the western banks turned into lovely sand beaches, lined with families on this hot sunny Friday. I remembered fondly going to Crane’s Beach as a child, just a couple of miles to the west.

With the wind picking up I headed north to Isles of Shoals. The day was getting on and I was impatient to get there. I guess I was impatient to see home, to end the journey. I finally paand headed between ssed the light on White I., passing between Star I., with the hotel, and Lungling I. The anchorage, centered between Smuttynose, White and Cedar and protected by the jetties that joined them was almost full, with the perhaps 50 private moorings in the deep water very snug. I picked up one of the few remaining moorings. It had a very heavy pennant, looking as if it were set up for a pretty fair-sized boat. This was good, although I spent the rest of the late afternoon and evening worrying that one of the still arriving boats would claim it. My luck held, though, and I spent a peaceful night.

Saturday the wind started early from the southwest, so I was able to sail off the mooring. The only problem was that the course for Portland left me running straight downwind, so I ended up tacking downwind to keep the sails drawing. I spoke with my friend Lare, who let me know that I could use his mooring off Peaks, which was a great relief to my worries about where I would keep the boat. The wind kept building throughout the day, so that when I passed Portland Head Light I was tearing along at eight knots, with the rising tide adding a knot or so. In fact, after rounding Bug Light into the harbor I couldn’t tack up the bay under full main and jenny. I had decided that I would spend the night on the wharf under the Casco Bay Bridge. South Portland had turned the remains of the old Million Dollar Bridge into a park and wharf that holds three or four thirty footers. The wind was now funneling down the Fore River and the chopp  and wind left my speed at a paltry 1.8-2 knots, so I was a bit of a slog to get there. I was happy to be there though, for the wind was blocked by the shore and it was relatively peaceful, unlike the moorings in the harbor.

I was home, but it still felt like I was continuing the journey, camped under the big commuter bridge, listening to the vehicles thundering overhead and still on my own. I did walk up to Shaw’s for dinner fixings and ice, feeling a bit desolate as my house, now home to only Kathleen, was right around the corner. When I came back to the boat I watched a tanker being maneuvered through the bridge and turned around to dock up by two tugs. It took a while, but was fascinating to watch. The wind, which to me was so much of a force, seemed unimportant to the ship and tugs as they turned the massive tanker broadside to it. You need a pretty powerful force to meet nature.

I passed Throgs Neck and entered Long Island Sound. I sailed as far as Norwalk Harbor, where there was a race with everything from Lightnings to Half-Tonners. What there wasn’t was room to anchor, so I ended up leaving and finding shelter behind islands just outside. I was sniffing around, looking for a protected place behind Betts Island in Sheffield Harbor when I came just a little too close to a high spot that was not defined like many other ones by sticks. No longer in the sand like down south, I ended up bumping over a few cobbles and got stuck. Luckily, the tide had only 45 minutes to low, then floated me free within an hour and a half from grounding time. I made dinner and read, so the time was not a waste. I moved west a hundred yards and settled in the lee of Betts, Chimon and Grassy Islands- no swell and the wind remained out of the east all night, so it was a good spot- I wouldn’t want to try it too many nights, though…

6/12 The next day I tried to reach New London, but had to settle for the mouth of the Connecticut River at Saybrook Point. I was out of the Sound and found a tiny mooring, spot on the west side of the river, sort of out of the 3 knot river current- the only one, said the attendant at the nearby marina’s fuel dock. I probably should have sprung for a boater’s guide to Conn and Rhode Island to avoid the searching for decent anchorages, but $40.00 just seemed extravagant.

6/13 The next stop was either Pt. Judith, R.I. or Block Island. I opted for a look at the island, as Pt. Judith is basically a fishing town. Block Island has a huge Pond in the middle, where all the boats moor, but it is pretty well filled with moorings except for near the entrance, where it is 30 feet deep, a hard depth to anchor in. I managed to find a somewhat shallow spot, about 19 feet, with a couple of other smaller cruisers. I took the dinghy in to town, too late to go to the market, but I spoke with a somewhat local sailor, who told me of a closer, better spot for anchoring next time, but who said that in a couple of weeks the Block I. Race Week would bring enough boats to pack the whole pond. It reminded me a bit of the Vinyard. Back at the boat a neighbor stopped by to say “hi” on his way to the  movie theater and a karaoke bar in the town at the “Old Harbor” on the east side of the island. Now those were not activities that I had thought of as part of the cruising life!

6/14  The next morning it was not too far to Cuttyhunk so I decided to take a tour of the island and get a few things at the grocery store. I walked up from the landing to the main road, but wasn’t sure what direction to head. I decided this was the sort of place one could flag down a passing vehicle, so I did. It was a truck driven by a young electrician who told me the way , but then offered a ride. Nice. We drove by old farmhouses, the fire house, the market, and then we were in town. I hopped out and walked along the “downtown” street that faced the open ocean and the small basin where the ferries come in. The buildings had a Victorian feel and there were plenty of interesting shops, quaint inns and hotels. It might be a nice weekend getaway place. I stopped on my way back for a fresh bagel to eat later, bread, eggs and butter, as well as a bottle of Poland Springs Gin. The wind looked like a tight squeeze to make Cuttyhunk, so I headed out hoping for a bit of a wind switch to the west a bit. Of course, I could only make it to Point Judith with the north breeze, back where I could have been the night before! As I neared the breakwater there the wind came around so that I could now head back over to Cuttyhunk, but I had sailed an extra ten miles. I could have started a couple of hours later and been just as well off, with a now favorable wind. I did have a nice sail out, seeming to be headed for Europe, as at first I could see no land out there! Eventually I could see what turned out to be Gay Head on Martha’s Vinyard, which seemed awfully high for one of the Elizabeth Islands, until I figured it out. I pulled into the anchorage next to another boat headed back to Maine after a few years in the Caribbean and South America. Here we were protected from the open Atlantic by a sand spit, with an opening a few hundred yards away that sometimes lets the swells in for an uncomfortable night. Not this time. There is a channel into a snug basin, but then one has to pay $40.00 for a mooring. I wouldn’t do this unless the weather made it necessary. I did motor the dingy in to look around. There is a nice tight community of older houses on a rise, but no real stores, etc. A nice place if you have a house, but not much there for the casual visitor except for beautiful views.

The wind never came up, so we ended up motoring all but the last mile or so. We anchored off a little beach outside the small inner harbor that had room for only a couple  of  moored boats between a narrow channel and a couple of marinas. After a bit of discussion we decided to take only the Beau Tide into the inner harbor, so I could fuel, and water and ice up, then drop the hook for a bit so that we could explore, visit a farmers market and buy a few groceries. It is a pretty town of restored older homes, with quite a few public parks with shade trees on the water. We sweated our way around the peninsular in 90 degree heat, but bought locally made ice cream, fresh strawberries, beans, asparagus, lettuce and bread. We also visited a store front museum where we got involved in a too-long, but interesting history of a local antique class of sailboats, a few of which a still sailing a century later. A six-pack of IPA and a bag of Cape Cod Chips was our reward back on the boat.

That evening Pat and Peter treated me to dinner at a waterfront restaurant at the other end of town. We had anchored both boats off the beach at this point, so used the inflatable to journey the mile or so down to the other end of the harbor, then walked over to the west side of the peninsula. We had a great view to the west and some good rockfish (striped bass to us New Englanders).

The next morning, 6/3, I used Peter’s wrenches to tighten up my stuffing box a bit, so it would not let in so much water over a day of motoring- it should only drip 2 or 3 times a minute to keep the prop shaft cool as it spins in the contraption that seals the hole in the hull that the prop shaft passes through. Of course, this involves first getting out from the cockpit locker several dock lines, the mainsail cover, the extra genoa, the shore power cable, the bag for storing the inflatable, the teak cockpit table, the three bins of tools and supplies, a shelf, the bos’uns chair and a wall of the engine compartment. It took a bit of finagling with these specialized pipe wrenches before I backed off on the locknut and tightened down the collar that contains the packing that seals the shaft. Then- back in with all the stuff. This called for another early morning swim. Then Pat and Peter gave me the rundown on potential stopping places on my way north. A strong SW breeze let me sail almost to Annapolis. I had thought I might stop there, but my friend Wes was up to Rhode Island for the weekend. I pushed on, motoring toward Baltimore, calling Cobber on the off-chance that he hadn’t yet left for the mid-west. We ended up conversing several times as I found my way into the Patapsco River, on which Baltimore lies. It kept getting later as I fought the tide, then a couple of thunderstorms that blasted wind and rain right out of the SW, where I was trying to get into Rock Creek. I ended up taking a chance and flying the jenny between storms, motivated by the sailboat that motored from way behind to way ahead through the first storm. I did get in and Cobber was just finishing his late business meeting, so it all worked out. Although this suburban/rural area was lovely and only fifteen or twenty minutes from his home in Baltimore Cobber had never been down this way, so it was time to get on the computer to find the way.

He soon joined me at the local yacht club, where I had received permission to tie up the dinghy and information on restaurants. After some driving about, as I hadn’t listened as closely as I should have, we got to the sort of Italian joint, sort of bar. We settled down and ordered strip steaks and beer. We discussed where we were at this point in our lives, reinvisioning the future, but bending to forces beyond our control. It was a good honest talk and one people don’t really seem to have that often. I was happy we managed to connect. After too much steak we called it a night.

Chesapeake and Delaware Canal

On Friday I headed off to the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, not too from Pat and Peter’s home port, Havre de Grace, but on the western side of the extreme north end of the bay. Per usual, after a nice morning sail, the wind dropped and I ended up motoring through the afternoon to arrive at Chesapeake City, a very small Victorian era town that grew when the original Canal had a lock system. I ate lovely ice cream produced on a local farm while searching for charts to go north. I even spent a pleasant half hour with an old gent on the Main St. who sits in his rocker in front of his front porch that is overflowing with picture frames, furniture, crockery and all the odds and ends of a yard sale- but his appears to be forever ongoing. He was a nice guy, and even had some property way Down-East; he even offered to drive me to the market if I needed food.

The night was spent trying to sleep while listening to the band at the marina a hundred yards away.

I had tried to get to bed early, in that I wanted to arrive at the east end of the twelve mile canal when the tide was beginning to ebb in the Delaware R., which meant a 0430 rising time.

Cape May

The timing went well, and with the stiff SW breeze, the engine and the tide I was able to do eight knots at times. Again, it seemed odd to be motor sailing, but I was glad I had done so, because in the mid-afternoon I was still a couple of miles short of the canal that bisects Cape May when the wind dropped to nothing. In the center of the Cape the narrow canal widens a bit to form a few small anchorages. Peter had told me about the one adjacent to the Coast Guard station and that was a good thing because all the other areas were filled with moorings. I just had time to set the anchor, get the dinghy set up and motor over to a nearby marina, then walk to the local West Marine to buy a Chartbook for Cape May to Rhode Island. Later I met the family in Gemini, a large sloop from Singapore- an Australian man, his younger Asian wife and their three-year-old daughter. We talked of the strong North breezes expected for the next couple of days and whether it might make sense to stay put.

I went to bed not knowing whether I would head out or not. In the morning I decided that it would make the most sense to buy a pump to change the oil in the diesel, for I had gone over 200 hours since the beginning of my travels and Westerbeke suggested changing the oil every 100-150hours. So back to the marina, where a couple in their car stopped, looking for a marine supply store. Of course, I offered to show them the way if they would give me a lift.

I bought a pump designed for outboards, but which was sized just right for my 2.5 L oil capacity, and for storage on board. It is pretty ingenious, just the opposite of an Indian tank, which you pump up to pressure in order to spray a liquid; in this case you pump it up to create a vacuum, which sucks the oil out through a tube into a reservoir with a pour spout, handy for emptying into a container for disposal. It worked slick, and it fits under one of the forepeak berths where lines from the head and heat pump make the space unusable for much else.

After that I was invited on board the Gemini for coffee. We discussed the usual cruisers’ list: self steering, electrical generation and refrigeration. After eleven years of cruising my host knew a lot about many things.

In the afternoon I brought my bike ashore, explored the sometimes quaint Victorian resort town and did some food shopping. Not long after I came back on board the almost daily (at least this week) thunderstorm started to develop. I was down below when the first wind blast hit. The boat swung wildly and I went up on deck, just in time to see the bow fall off from directly into the wind. I went up quickly to the bow and saw that the rode was not taut-I bounded back to the helm to start the engine and turn the boat’s bow back into the wind. Luckily the engine started right off and I was able to put it in gear and push the revs up to max. I had to run back to the bow and pull in some chain so we wouldn’t snag on a neighbor’s anchor. Half-finishing this task I went back on the helm as we cut across the Gemini’s bow, just clearing her chain rode. I had just brought the Beau Tide into the wind and was bringing the anchor up to the roller when another blast blew her sideways and I this time had to complete the turn downwind before we would strike another ketch broadside. Another catastrophe avoided, I stood off toward the channel and held her in place, using the engine, until the storm had passed, maybe fifteen minutes. When things had calmed down a bit I went somewhat forward of my original spot and put down the anchor again; we were in about ten feet of water and I had previously set a 22 pound Delta Fast Set on 60 feet of ¼” chain. This had worked fine the previous night and all day in a fairy strong tidal current and in different winds. This time I let out 40-50 feet of ½” line along with the 60 feet of chain. The wind continued to gust and blow strongly for several hours, but although the boat tacked back and forth quite a bit the anchor held fine. But you can bet that I was up from my berth and in the companionway every time the boat veered back and forth, feeling very nervous, but all was fine.

The only thing that I can think is that the anchor had been setting on a patch of weed or piece of smooth rock bottom and couldn’t grab, but that sounds far-fetched. I had a good scope, not quite the recommended 7:1, but this was a chain rode, not rope. I think I will never again stint when I can put out extra scope; its cheap insurance

Atlantic City

The next morning I started early, as a favorable bind was forecast. Once I cleared the inlet it was clear that the wind was from just west of north, about 350.  I could not make my rhumb line up to Atlantic City and would have to make a tack back to the west every hour and progress was slow despite a 10-15 knot breeze. It wasn’t until noon that the wind came up out of the SE so that I could make time. The high-rises of Atlantic City could be seen from fifteen miles away. As I approached I could make out the names proclaiming the casinos- Trump, Hurrahs, Taj Mahal, Hiatt. A brand new one was going up with the lower stories a series of sinuous curves facing the water, with a long thin, straight central tower and flowing roofline. It was sheathed in reflective deep blue panels that reflected the sky and connected it to the sea. I actually was quite taken with it. As I entered the inlet I could see the dirt wasteland and deteriorating, isolated small buildings (holdouts from the developers?) that surrounded all the new construction, looking forlorn.

I had arrived at the inlet around four and headed into the harbor basin, lined with marinas, to refuel and water. When I asked about a place to anchor the woman at the fuel dock told me to return out of the basin, cross the main channel I had started down from the inlet and squeeze between the beach to my east and a marsh on my west. I headed over and saw a group from a boat and a Jeep gathered on the east beach and a guy on a jetski heading over. I called to him and asked about a channel; he assured me that the 10-15 yard wide opening had plenty of water, and that I should go straight in, following the sticks marking the channel. Of course, it took a slight ooze into the mud for me to figure out which side of the sticks to pass on. I did end up in the middle of a marsh basin in 10-12’ of water. It must once have been very beautiful, but now it was surrounded on three sides by two and three story, not very appealing condos. To the north loomed the casinos.

It didn’t take long before my friends from the Gemini zoomed up in their inflatable, having seen my boat from the main channel, where they had been forced to anchor because of their deep draft. They had come to see if I wanted to take a walk on the beach with them. Their three-year-old needed her daily dry land walk. We had a beach ball to kick around, although the little girl seemed only to need the dry beach grass stalks to play with. They had left Cape May late, when the wind had changed, and arrived just after I did. So much for the early start.

6/8 Tues. A long day was ahead to reach Manasquan inlet. Sixty odd miles is a lot unless conditions are just right¸ and the wind, continuing out of the north north-west, let me just make a course following the coast up to the Barnegat Bay Inlet. The wind was gusting from 10 to 15 and occasionally to 20. On the higher gusts I would head up to gain ground to weather, but I continued to motor as well, because hard on I could not maintain the 5 knots I would need to reach my goal. I was pretty pleased to reach the Barnegat Inlet by 1300, but then realized it would be impossible to continue on my course, as the coast headed back west a bit. This would mean tacking up the coast and an arrival after dark. I made the decision to head back a half mile to head into Barnegat Bay.

It is one of those entrances where the buoy locations are changes with the shifting bottom, but I could see the marks well, so continued in between two jetties. Marked in the light blue empty field of my chart were the words “breakers”, mid-way down the jetties. I saw ahead a green mark to starboard and a red mark to port. This seemed to make no sense, as marks are generally placed in pairs, with the red mark on the right and the green one on the left as you enter a channel or harbor- hence the saying “red right return”, which means keep the red mark on your right when returning to the harbor. I was confused. I headed slowly down the middle of the channel, by the depth kept decreasing; at five feet I made a U-turn. Luckily a recreational fishing boat was coming in also, so I asked him where the channel was. He answered, “Keep to the right of the green.” This just didn’t seem right, but I followed him in. I got a bit closer and realized my old lack of depth perception was the problem. The red mark was actually located about a quarter mile past the green one, making the whole layout sensible- keep the green mark to my left, then , past it, head more to the left in order to keep the red mark on my right. I felt kind of silly having asked the question; but, then again, better to ask than run aground.

I continued just south of west, past a beautiful lighthouse, then through a marked channel between extensive sandbars, marshes and dune-covered islands. It was beautiful, but a long serpentine path maybe five miles long had to be navigated before arriving in the open waters of the bay. When I reached the wide bay I raised the sails I had lowered earlier, as much of the channel had necessitated sails directly into the wind. I could almost stay on the course to the head of the bay, but as I traveled northward the bay narrowed. The navigable areas are only six or seven feet deep, with much of the shoreline only one to four feet deep. The wind was becoming very gusty, with a strength such that the boat, under full main and jenny, would tend to round up into the wind. This seemed OK, in that I could stay in the middle of the deeper area. Then the engine started making a whine and I shut it down.

I kept sailing up the bay in the gusty breeze, trying to get up it as high as possible, so I could put a hook down in the lee of the land. Unfortunately, as I progressed north the navigable waters became extremely narrow. What saved me is that the big gusts out of the northwest almost forced me up, such that I crept a bit to the west with each one. I was just about able to reach the Toms River, and anchored just off the land. Of course, in the rush to get the mainsail down after dropping the anchor I pulled hard and a batten caught on a small pulley that is part of my lazyjack system to catch the sail as it drops, preventing it from blowing everywhere and landing on the deck. The sail ripped right at the end of the batten, not a big rip, only about three inches, but I was afraid it would rip a great deal more if I tried to use it.

I had been trying to reach the Manasquan R., as Kathleen’s parents lived nearby and I was going to have dinner with them or perhaps spend the night, if I could find a safe anchorage. I called to let them know of yet another delay, suggesting that we wait one more day and explaining the problems. Now it was time to check out the diesel that always needs something. I started the engine and saw that no water was coming out the exhaust- a problem that would cause the engine to overheat. I had put a new impeller in the new raw water pump after burning out one back in the early days of ownership, so it should have been in good shape. First I checked to see if the pump was getting water from the intake line. I found that the in-line filter was filled with bits of seaweed that could have blocked the flow, but I was anxious to make sure that was the only problem so I disconnected the line from the filter and blew back through the line to make sure the seacock was clear. It was, so I reconnected the line to the filter and fired up the engine; there was still no water in the exhaust.

This meant removing the six machine screws that hold on the cover from the raw water pump in order to check the condition of the impeller. It was disintegrated (lack of water), so I put in one of my two spares (I was learning!) and started up again. There was no water immediately, or even in what seemed like too long, so I shut down, removed the pump cover again and found that it was full of water-good! Not really knowing what to do I started up again for a bit, but shut down again when no water appeared. Better safe than sorry. I then figured that the line that left the manifold and emptied into the exhaust would be the next thing to check, so I removed one end of that line and started the engine, quickly seeing that water was getting that far. The only thing that could be wrong was a blockage in the exhaust line, but that seemed unlikely, in that it was a large diameter line that held only exhaust and the water. It seemed likelier that it was just taking a while for the water to make its way out the exhaust pipe and that I had been afraid to give it enough time to get there. I started the engine again and tried to be patient- and sure enough, out came a stream of water! Yet another learning experience…

I called the Egans and gave them the good news, but suggested again that I meet them the next day. Earlier, they had called the Commodore of the Manasquan Yacht Club, where they had previously been members for many years and I had been given permission to tie up at their dock for a night, so that made visiting a lot easier. For this night, however, I would just go as far as possible before sunset. I motored up a mile under a 65 foot high bridge to yet another bascule bridge, where I waited for the half-hour opening. The chart showed the channel then becoming very narrow and it looked like there would be no good place further on to anchor so I found a tiny deep (5 foot, with only a half-foot tidal range here!) spot just off the channel and prayed no big trawler would be coming in the dark. I was lucky, and no boats at all came before I left at seven the next morning for the canal that connects the Manasquan River to the head of Barnegat Bay and that is the northern start of the ICW. I came out the east end of the canal opposite to the site of the house the Egans had lived in for many years. The new owner had torn down the lovely house and tennis court and built a McMansion. I was at the yacht club before nine, after entering through an iffy channel through shallows, and there a friendly member set me up at a float. Three days behind my plans, but that’s OK, cruisers can’t have schedules.

I tied up at a float with the help of a club member, after negotiating a tricky little lead-in channel. It was so helpful to have this spot, as there were no other anchoring spots nearby in the river. Doris came down to pick me up and we returned to their home, stopping at North Sails to have the mainsail repaired. They were very helpful, but busy. They said the sail might be ready Friday, but no guarantees. Since it was then Wednesday afternoon, it seemed as though it might be a long visit. That evening I stayed ashore for the first time in three months, quite a luxury!  This after a fine grilled steak and a wonderful wine.

On Thursday I tried to tighten the forestay, which involves taking the Harken furling gear apart. Of course there were problems. All five of the stainless screws that needed to be removed or loosened were pretty well bonded to the aluminum pieces they fastened together. After a frustrating hour involving a spray mean to loosen bolts and a go with the propane torch I gave up. I did tighten the rig, which had seemed to bounce when going over abrupt swells, and which allowed the luff of the genoa to fall off a more that acceptable amount. I haven’t tuned a rig for a long time, but the mast seems straight, the forestay is more taught, there is no increased weather helm, and the surging off the mast seems to have stopped. Sometime when I’m at home I’ll have to tackle the furling gear again.

And a bigger surprise- I got a phone call letting me know the sail had been repaired. I picked it up in the afternoon. The sailmaker was not very encouraging though, saying he hoped I would make it home without additional tears, as the condition of the sail was marginal. He had made the small repairs I had requested, but said he could have gone on for hours but didn’t think the sail was worth it. Oh well, the sailmaker in Jacksonville was not at all discouraging. My guess is that the opinion of the condition of the sail depends on the fatness of the wallets of the customers. All I can do is hope for the best.

Anyway, the quick repair made it possible to leave on Friday. But Thursday night the Egans treated me to grilled lobster- Ed’s Specialty, and it was delicious! A not too late start made it possible to get ready for passing through New York City by sailing up the coast past Sandy Hook, across the busy shipping channel and up to a hidden creek between Coney Island and Long Island. I will do another post on these destinations.

The afternoon is filled with another 20 mile motor up the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal that ends in 15-20 knot breezes out of the north as we enter the Little Alligator River. I am last of the Oriental contingent, the shortest, but also the one with the slowest motoring speed.

After rounding Pasture Pt. to head north I had a good sail across the Pamlico up to the Pungo River, then east past Belhaven until reaching the Alligator R.-Pungo R. Canal. About 20 motoring miles behind brought me to the Alligator River, where we all again anchored in some almost coves at the northern bank of the river.

5/28 5/29 The protected anchorage proved god when the wind piped up out of the north during the night. By morning it was blowing, I heard later, over 25. I had risen early to get a good start in the expected NE, but I could see no point in moving until the wind shifted. I had to travel east up the Alligator, then soon round up around Newport News Pt., which would funnel the wind straight  at me as I attempted to travel north in the widened river. I was reading a book, wasting time, when I sensed something at 0730 and saw that the wind had shifted and dropped off.  I quickly went off to follow some of the boats which had been anchored a mile east of me. We sailed and motor sailed up the Alligator, across Arlbemarle Sound to the head of the Pasquotan R. There we arrived at Elizabeth City, a small town just before the entry into the Great Dismal Swamp Canal. The town had acted wisely and provided 14 slips (no water or elec.) free to boaters for 48 hours. When five or more boats arrive, as with our group, they set out a wine and cheese happy hour on the dock. This was great for two reasons. It gave the travelers an opportunity to meet and talk with the sailors on the boats that had been traveling together for several days, but who had never met. It also gave the chamber of commerce rep a chance to talk up the town- the businesses, restaurants, museum, etc. I think the free dockage is a good idea for the town, as many in the group decided to stay to get chores done or to just look around. They spent money for two days that would never have been spent if they had anchored off the tlast century.own and left the following morning.

5/29 The Great Dismal Swamp is 22 miles of the same dense trees and undergrowth, So heavy and overbearing that you have to watch out for overhanging branches that break off on your mast. To enter I joined up with several other boats in a lock that raises the level about 8 feet. We wrapped bow and stern lines around bollards and took in on the lines as the water rose over ten or fifteen minutes. It was the 1130 opening, as I had to motor for a couple of hours after a seven o’clock bastule bridge opening just north of Elizabeth City wharves. Because I couldn’t make the earlier, 0830, opening I had no expectation of getting to the other end before the last 0330 lock opening. I let all the other faster boats by me and watched the trees go by. About half-way there is a state park dock, nature trails, and a Rt. 17 rest area.

I went into the visitors’ center to read the history of the area and canal- evidently George Washington is the first to think of ravaging the area. He gathered a bunch of investors to buy couple of thousand acres, with the idea of harvesting timber. He eventually sold his investment, but others, using slave labor, cleared the mostly cedar and oak forests and drained the land by digging ditches. Eventually a canal was dug to haul out the trees. This timbering continued to midway through the last century. I even went down the accessible boardwalk for a ways, but the trail showed no more than could be seen from the canal. After lunch I motored up to the north end, where there was a bulkhead to tie up till the next morning. I considered eating at the Mexican restaurant next to whose parking lot I was tied, but settled for going to a market just across the street to re-provision and get ice.

The next morning, after motoring in place for an hour waiting for the 0830 opening, the locks opened to let a south-bound boat out. I was the only one going north, so I ended up speaking quite a while with the lock tender, who, hearing I needed charts for the Chesapeake, loaned me a book of charts, saying he had lent it out 10 or 12 times and that people sent it back when they were through. I was glad to promise the same and bid farewell as I headed into Norfolk.

Leaving a tranquil and rural stream I turned north under a large highway bridge and entered the industrial world. Huge warehouses, industrial buildings and fuel depots, railroad bridges, barges and tankers took over. After a short while things became more upscale and prettified. I came to the small park/anchorage where I had spent a night on Peter’s schooner after the last Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race. I stopped past it at a large marina to fuel up and take on more ice. As I was displaced from the fuel dock by a radio call to the marina from another boat that wanted diesel I saw that it was another boat I had talked with on the canal. Further north on the river was totally devoted to the U S Navy- with destroyers, battleships, aircraft carriers, hospital ships and all the facilities needed to maintain the biggest concentration of ships on the east coat.

Pushing on, I made it another twenty-odd miles up to Mobjack, a small cove off a large bay of the same name on the western shore. During the day I had called and spoken with Pat and Peter, who were cruising on their 40 foot schooner, hoping to rendezvous.

5/30 Mobjack Bay A long motorsail brought me up to the south side of the mouth of the Potomic, to a creek off the Coan River, and anchorage suggested by Pat. This location made the Little Choptank, a river on the eastern shore, a good place to meet up with their schooner, the Susan B. Merriman, the next afternoon. After a nice sail (plus the usual light-breeze motorsail) we met up in the quiet Fishing Creek, where Peter cooked a wonderful pork tenderloin dinner.

It is a unique day for me. I woke when my alarm went off at 0430. Of course, it was still dark. I went up to the top step of the companionway and looked out to the southwest, at the several other sailboats anchored in the lee of a breakwater that formed the harbor for Oriental. To the northwest, only a hundred yards away, loomed the 45’ high bridge that crossed over Smith Creek. There were red lights over the span through which the channel passes, but no traffic. I climbed on deck to urinate over the life line and felt the wind, not strong, but persistent, that still came out of the north. I could hear the swells clearly, even downwind, rushing past on the other side of the breakwater that separated the tiny anchorage from the Neuse River. The boat rose up and down gently in the swells that found their way in.

I had hoped to leave early, before the tide began to rise, at about six thirty, and the wind began to blow the 15 knots predicted. I seemed that the wind had never really died down from yesterday, again, as predicted. On other boats where I could see no cabin lights glowing, only their masthead anchor lights, so it seemed that no one else intended to get away in the pre-dawn hours. To reach the next bit of the ICW channel that makes its way across a neck of land it was necessary to travel NE out the Neuse. I had wanted to sail down this wide open expanse of water, relatively shallow, but protected from the open ocean by the Outer Banks, but the NE wind funneled down between the timbered banks so that it came right on the nose. My boat, with only a 13 h.p. diesel, could barely make progress against the small steep swells and steady wind, so there would be no sense in even attempting the trip this morning. Clearly the other north bound travelers had also come to the same conclusion. I climbed back in my berth and slept till 0600.

At six the situation had not changed much, but now, just before sunrise, I could see the flag waving, fully extended atop the bridge. It did make me appreciate the snug anchorage. I fixed fried eggs, bagels and cream cheese, a banana and coffee. I picked up the book I had started the night before, The Pilot’s Wife by Anita Shreve. It is the story of a commercial airline pilot’s crash, but also the story of the dissolution of a marriage. The depiction of this marriage, its initial bright start, the subsequent loss of passion, the remaining love, the feelings of loss and mistrust, the misery and anger and the affair all seem so raw and true to me now. The situation is tragic, but Shreve writes so truthfully about marriage that I am totally engrossed.

Now, at 0920, life does not yet seem to have started on any other of the transient boats. Rain has been falling for an hour or two now, and the day is overcast and gloomy, almost foggy. Yet it is still so unlike the northeast, for I am sitting around, totally comfortably, in a t-shirt and briefs. I might go into town again, but it seems like such an effort to bail the Achilles, firm it up with the pump, get out the gas tank and line, transfer the engine from the stern rail to the dinghy’s transom- all in the rain, in foul-weather gear, and sweating. Only it would be good to go the Bean, the local coffee joint, to perhaps meet up with others and get on line again.  I had been able, earlier, to hook up to the nearby marina while on the boat, but that seems no longer to be possible. The flag atop the bridge is still fully extended and waving, even though the rain seems to be falling straight down on the boats sixty feet below.

The rain stopped so I have come ashore to post this. I just had a very interesting conversation with a couple from Britain who come over here once or twice a year  to explore areas of the US by car and bike.

I also finished The Pilot’s Wife and realized that, perhaps being so totally by myself,  I connect more fully to the thoughts and situations of the fictional characters in the novels than I have in the past. I do recommend this book, but maybe because it hits so close to home. It may be a good thing to identify with the characters, but does it mean that I’m living more of an interior life? I hope not, but you have to make friends where you find them…

Finally, after 0600, Bon came with his friend George. Don is over seventy and seems to have a lifetime of experience. He thought the problems might all go back to the 2 micron filter, that the quick buildup of tiny particles would cause the fuel pump to work really hard, increasing the pressure and causing air leaks than might not ordinarily open up under less pressure. He also said he had the parts to rebuild any of the fuel line. He gave me a spare 30 micron filter and suggested I test it at the dock and also check the fuel line for any blockage.

I had the boat tied up to the dock and, with the new filter installed, ran it for an hour at 2800 RPM, with the engine exhibiting none of the previous symptoms.  A nice motor cruiser from Camden, ME named the Black Swan, and styled after an old commuter, showed up and while I was runninmg the engine, we had a nice talk about the Bahamas, Camden, diesels and the ICW.

5/21 I slept a whole lot better, not feeling overwhelmed by potential problems. After a quick breakfast I took the Racor filter unit off the bulkhead, disconnected the fuel line to the pump and to the tank. Blowing back to the tank to check for a blockage I could get no air through. When I removed the other end of the line from the pickup on the tank I found that there was a back flow preventer on the line. All through this I was calling Dick for backup and advise; he said that the preventer was not needed, as one was built into the Racor filter. I  unscrewed the the pickup, a plastic tube that leads to the  bottom of the tank and is the start of the fuel line. There was a screen at the bottom end that was somewhat glazed over and again Don said to remove it, as we had the Racor to provide the filter. I then biked over to NAPA auto and Marine to get extra filters and parts to reattach the fuel line without the backflow preventer. At the store they said the fittings were great, that the double hose clamps were even unnecessary with the connectors, but fine. The one other thing I wanted to make sure of was the seal between the bottom and top of the Racor. There is an O-ring that I figured was old and might be leaking; it turns out that you can’t get just the O-ring, but the helpful NAPA guy ley me use some grease to coat it and make it seal better.

Back on board I put it all back together with no problems. The next morning  I ran the engine in gear again for another two hours. I paid attention for drops in RPM but noted none. I still lost the 1/2″ of fuel from the filter during that period, but decided I was going to ignore it, that maybe it had always done that without my picking up on it. I then got ice and a gallon of mineral spirits, which Don, the old-time mechanic, said would help to break down any build-up of debris and slime on the tank walls. By the time I realized I should be off it was 1600 hrs.

I decided to motor up to the Wrightsville Inlet, where I wanted to get out the next morning for an “offshore” sail to Beaufort, NC. Of course, it turned out, what with adverse tide, a matter always to be reckoned with here, I would not get there before dark, Putting me back yet another day, for if I didn’t get outside early there would not be enough time to make the 70 miles. I anchored on the side of the ditch and headed north again the next morning. I fueled up in Wrightsville, then headed over to an anchorage that would give me access across the skinny barrier island, to the Atlantic beach. What I didn’t count on was running aground twice while trying to get through the marked channel right next to the marina. Finally a guy yelled that there was a sandbar and that I would have to move out of the channel and feel my way through, which I did.  I did end up going to the beach; I read my latest mystery, watched the young things in their bikinis and body surfed in the warm surf.

Later , back in the anchorage, I met a guy who had sailed single–handed over the pond to the Azores, then to Portugal and back on a boat no bigger than mine, and not half as nice. I was impressed. We met on shore later and had a couple of beers, but things kind of fell apart when he started on his Libertarian politics. The next morning, although I was up early, there was no wind, and none predicted, so I ended up motoring the ditch -again. This took two days instead of the one it would have taken could I have sailed with a fair breeze. The second day I faced a stiff breeze all morning. Despite my fears the engine ran like a champ, although there is really not enough power in her thirteen horses to make very good progress again waves, the tide and fifteen knot breezes. I had in my head that I wanted to see Beafort again after 29 year, but there wasn’t much to see. By the time I realized that it was too late to head north on the ICW for the straight ditch, with no room to pull over anywhere, for the next 301 miles to Oriental.

I headed up  this morning with a strong 15-30 k breeze out of the NE. When I reached the 3 mile open passage across the bay the wind and waves were really up and I could manage less than 3 knots. About half-way across I put out about half the genoa and found I could just head up enough to make the course and motorsail at about five knots. It was able, among others hiding from the wind that would be coming right at our noses had we tried to head on up the coast, to put down an anchor in back of a breakwater that protects the town harbor.

Of course, midway through the afternoon it seemed as though the wind had dropped, although I think it is only our snug anchorage. I’m hoping that I can head out early tomorrow morning, although more NE strong winds are predicted. We’ll see… This afternoon I was able to finally find butane fuel for the stove at a local outfitters, after striking out several times along the way- I had only 2 containers left- less than I need for a week. I also went shopping for black beans, milk, ham, cheese, veggies, bread and all those other necessities.

The wind seems stuck out of the NE or N, making my life difficult and slow. Oh well, c’est la vie!

This is sort of typical for how the system is patched together:

Beaufort R joins the Coosaw R. (which heads SE to the Atlantic via St Helena Sound), off of  which Ashepo -Coosaw Cutoffleads to Rock Creek, then back to the Cutoff, to  then to the Ashepo R. ( which to the SE, leads back to the Cooshaw R.) through 1/4 mile of the Fenwick Cut over to the South Edisto R. (which, to the SE, also leads back to St Helena Sound), north to Watts Cut to the Dawho R., then to the N. Edisto R. (which has its own inlet to the Atlantic) to its northern source, and to the Stono R.and finally through Elliot Cut and Washpoo Creek, then Ashley River, on whose bank lies Charleston.

The Elliott Cut is a very skinny channel contained by two masonry banks, through which the tide rushes furiously. I could make less than 2 knots for maybe 1/2 mile, until it widened into Washpoo Creek, which is entered through yet another bascule bridge, whose opening time I miraculously hit right, for it would have been very difficult to keep the boat stationary in that cut.

During the day I noted that the sand had turned to more of a mud in SC, and   the land is higher, maybe 10-15′ above high water, so the wharfs often have ramps and floats such as we see in NE. There was one southbound sailboat and maybe six trawler yachts heading north. I also saw signs for property for sale, that I hadn’ t seen since Florida.

The whole trip from Charleston took 65 miles, anchor to anchor. It has been 233 miles from St Simons, traveling three of four days, averaging 58 miles a day on travel days.

At night, having anchored on the south bank of the Ashley R., I took note of the haves and the have-nots of the boating world. Across the river was the Coast Guard and a fancy marina. between them was a small anchorage filled with local sailboats, all looking somewhere between neglected and trashed. It left no room for transients, so the other side of the river, with more of the same, was the only option. Meanwhile, at the marina there were a half dozen shiny motor yachts over 60′, which the same number of the 40-60′ size, all looking pretty opulent.

Sat, 5/15

I dingied to the Charleston marina and bicycled across the peninsula to the downtown area , which had a nice farmer’s market in a park, and had a nice small city comfort to it. Along the north shore and the eastern point were lovely mid-eighteenth to mid-nineteen century houses and commercial buildings onbrick or cobbled narrow streets , most beautiful restored or kept.  Houses all had multi-level covered porches to catch the southwest breezes- a very alluring community.Walking, bussed or carriaged tours groups were everywhere. There was an old City market, much like Baltimore. I visited the building which had been a slave market, it seems one of several, for Charleston was a center for slavery and the slave trade. Finally, I cycled out of town to the only chandlery, West Marine of course, to get a new sunshower to keep clean.

I left around 1600 that afternoon to get through the harbor and north to the next leg of the ICW. I sailed through a large fleet, maybe 100 Lasers racing, trying not to screw up too many. There was a swing bridge to the north, and I would have had to wait a half-hour, but a large commercial boat came through and I could follow in its wake. I continued north until sunset, when I took a small creek off to the side allowing me to anchor in the marshes once again. By leaving in the afternoon after a day of sightseeing I figured I had shortened the next day’s journey by 2 1/2 to 3 hours. Going offshore would have been much longer, due to the long SE bearing channel out of Charleston and my destination, Georgetown; plus, the winds had been predicted to be light, so I would have had to motor anyway.

By early afternoon I had reached Winyah Bay, where there is an inlet through which I could have headed to the Atlantic, and where I had planned to find a sheltered place to spend the night. I pulled into a marina to fuel up, and to replace the Racor filter, which seemed plugged again. I found as I was heading in  their marked entry channel that the depth was right at 4′, my draft, of below. I quickly fueled up and changed the filter, then got stuck trying to turn around. The dock hand said I would be able to get out the channel, as it was deeper there, and had it silted in recently, but that if the water was low I would be able to motor right through it. With misgivings, I gave it a try and got through. By now the afternoon breeze, 15 knots, had come up out of the south.

Instead,  headed west to the small town of Georgetown. There was a snug little anchorage in front of the town dock, where I was serenaded by live music at the waterfront bar. There a local boater told me that it was 16 miles to the end of the entry, against the tide, of course, before I could turn north for the 62 miles fetch to Cape Fear. It looked like the ICW, yet again. 5/17 Charlestown I headed up the Waccamaw R. in the morning, with cypress, lining the banks on their exposed roots, dense vines and thick scrub made it seem like the jungle. The engine wavered between 2500-2800 RPM; I checked the filter and also the connections for air leaks, but could find no obvious source for the problem. It was beginning to really bother me.

At about 1400 I called a marina I was approaching an spoke with a friendly and knowledgeable owner, so I pulled in; the place was looking   pretty derelict, with scrubby boats, swaying docks, and an old aluminum trailer set in an overgrown field, serving as the office. I discussed the situation a bit more, when he told me that his mechanic had gone home sick, but would be back in at eight, the next morning. I figured I wouldn’t get attention any more quickly at marinas up the line, so I decided to wait, butI d idn’t want to pay for overnight dockage. This meant going back through the last bascule bridge to Enterprise Creek, branching off the ICW- about 5 miles.

5/18 up at 0520

I returned the next morning, experiencing ongoing problems. I waited a half hour while the crew had their morning meeting. being covered by vinesan antique rusty Gulf sign, an old tractor I took pictures then a guy came down, said he wasn’t a mechanic, that they didn’t have one who could come down to the boat, but who looked at the Racor filter and declared it clogged. I said, “After only six hours?” and he pointed out its greyness and said “y,es.” I let him change the filter, but since it was my last spare one, I bought three more, as well as three secondary filters by Westerbeke- $135.00. The owner assured me that my problems were solved, so I headed out, only to have the same symptoms recur.

5/18 0520 rising

I returned by eight, experiencing the same problems. While I waited for the marina staff to have teir morning meeting I took pictures of the antique rusty Gulf sign, the old boats, an old tractor being engulfed by vines, the old trailer and a new speedboat with a collapsed dock building in back of it. Finally, a guy came down to the boat, said he wasn’t a mechanic, that the mechanic they had wasn’t able to get down into the boat, but that he would take a look. He pulled the filter and called it shot. I said, “After only six hours?” He pointed to the discoloration and assured me that this was so. I had a spare filter and he installed it. I ended up buying three more, as well as the secondary Westerbeke filters- $135.00. Did I get dirty fuel down at Winyah Bay at Belle Isle Marina? The whole thing made me nervous. I left with the tide against me, only making 4.1 k. against the flow from the next inlet, Little River, just north. Again, going out this inlet against the tide made no sense.

Eventually I pass the back side of Myrtle Beach. The ICW really is a ditch, about 10-15″ below the bluffs, which are mostly tree covered (where developments of small mansions or condos haven’t changed trees to manicured lawn). More “For Sale” signs. So there was no wind to help. Late in the afternoon I came to the last pontoon bridge on the ICW and had to wait and hour and a half for the water to get deep enough to operate the bridge. The engine was still aproblem, acting as though the filter is clogged. Should I put another $12.00 filter in and see what happens?

I ended up pushing on, although I could see that the ditch was all narrow with no anchorages likely for a long while. I kept hoping to see a spot as the sun began to sink. Just then I saw we were at the Shalotte River, where I had noted on the chart that there was a small 9′ deep hole just to the north of the ICW. The chart didn’t show an entrance, but the GPS showed a path a few yards wide, between a sandbar and a marsh. As I had few other options, I decided to go for it, following the boat’s track on the  GPS, as I couldn’t see the land masses clearly now.  I put the hook down in 9′ of water, the GPS showing an area large enough for swing, and watch the tide rush by in the river. I put the GPS anchor alarm on and hoped for the best. Throughout the night when I awoke I could see the track of the boat circling the anchor with the tide. Luckily there  was no wind. In the morning I could see our neat circle and the fact that we were only yards away from a dry sandbar and the high marsh bank. I followed our track from the night before to get back in the ICW.   Sometimes things work out…

There were 28 more miles to Southport at Cape Fear- this was not fun. Although it became clear in the afternoon it had been cloudy and even rainy the night before and through most of this day- a first as far back as I can remember down here.

As I approached Southport I looked over marinas, thinking about having someone else look at the engine. I did go as far as the town’s Old Basin, where three boats can anchor and the area is surrounded by small docks holding everything from shrimp boats to runabouts. The northern shore has several restaurants, while the head has marsh and a few nice old cottages. Some young commercial fishermen I talked with recommended Don MArtin as an independent mechanic, but  no one knew his number, nor could I find it. Another young crew of fishermen suggested their friend at the big commercial marina next door. They called him and paved the way for me to go to their fuel dock to get some attention.  I t turned out that their friend, Joe, was the head mechanic, so he sent another young fellow. He found that the o-ring sealing the top of the Racor had split, but I explained that the symptoms had started long before I had put in that o-ring. He was going to use a pressure tester to check the fuel line from the tank to the filter and from the filter to the pump, but another worker had brought the unit to another of their locations. He and Joe, who eventually came down, suggested problems with the fuel line, the fuel tank pick-up and the injector pump. But they were too busy for the next few days to attend to my problems. He did get me the number of the independent mechanic and suggested I call him. I motored back to the basin and gave him a call. He said he would call me back. I hadn’t heard for a while when I decided to get a basin on deck and was my face and upper body. I was in the middle of the washing when my phone rang and he asked “I was wondering how you were going to get to that phone.” Turns out he was in his truck watching me- some joke? He seemed nice enough though, and he suggested I take off the end of the the fuel line connected to the filter and blow into it to see if there was some blockage, causing the pump to pull hard enough to pull in air in a small leak. He said he would see me today. When I looked at the lines I realized that if I were to disconnect a line a would not have the material to reattach it, so I did nothing.

Later that afternoon another boat, and old Choy Lee, anchored nearby, crewed by two men a few years older than me. The boat was pretty bad-looking and, as I found out later, had been sunk. One man said he was a retired marine mechanic, that he had rebuilt the Volvo in ’92 and sold it to a guy her took her down to Fernadina Beach. There she had a hard life, but he was bringing her home to get her back in shape again. His opinion of my situation was anew one. He thought that since I hadn’t been adding a bit of ATF to the fuel at fill-ups, the injector pump was probably bad. He said that they had been making diesel cleaner over the years, but that this put older engines, such as mine, in danger of ruining the injector pump seals. This was all a new one to me, and I will have to ask other about the theory. Anyway, it gave me something to thing about rather than sleep last night.

This morning, when a large trawler left it,  I took the boat into the one free spot available to transients on the town dock. I tried calling Don, the latest mechanic, to let him know, but he didn’t answer his phone until 1000, when he said he was in Wilmington for a while, but would see me when he got back. That’s why I’m here, down below, getting this blog up to date. I also re-patched the Achilles, which got dinged by oysters in Thunderhole. I got groceries last night at Walmarts, out of town a couple of miles, before a thunderstorm passed over. Another little town without a grocery store left on Main St. Anyway, here I sit and wait. I really want to see if I can get this problem taken care of- without spending a bundle, which I don’t have.

I looked at the charts again and grew a bit discouraged at how few 50-75 mile hops outside that can be made. It looks like I’ll be doing more motoring than I planned.

Savannah is a beautiful city, people-scaled and set up in neighborhoods that show different characters, architecture that ranges from the mid- eighteenth century right up through late Victorian. It is so wonderful that Sherman spared it, with, I think, 24 squares that are miniature parks spaced within the grid of city streets. Some of the neighborhoods are almost bungalow-style in the small neat styles, whole others have Victorian detail to wooden structures; then there are really magnificent mansions with large enclosed yards, as well as the beautiful upscale town houses. The oaks, magnolias, and a plethora of other trees make the city so pleasant, but I was told that in the summer it is so hot and humid, no one wants to be there.

Today, 5/13, I motored and sailed another fifty or so miles to Beaufort, SC (Be-u-fort, as opposed to Bo-fort, NC). It is supposed to be another beautiful town and now, at 6:20 in the evening I will bike around and take a look before heading back to the boat. The swing bridge to head north (to Ladies Island) opens @ 0645, then not again until 0900, so I can start real early, or continue to explore the town.