My second delivery job in the United States from Rock Hall, Maryland, to Fort Lauderdale, FL, was with a captain and owner aboard. The owner, a weekend sailor with one summer season and a new to him Island Packet 36 foot, needed crew south to Florida for his first sail outside the Chesapeake. I arrived in Rock Hall with the captain to meet the owner and get acquainted with the Island Packet.
We departed on a cool November day around 8:00am. As we motor-sailed south from Rock Hall, we could hear low rumbling booms from Aberdeen Proving Grounds located northwest of Rock Hall. APG is home to a myriad of military operations, including the development and testing of all things that go boom. The first day was navigating the Chesapeake Bay; we had about 140 nautical miles until the mouth leading into the Atlantic Ocean. There are many obstacles in the Chesapeake Bay, including numerous fishing bouys, snares, oyster and fish reefs, and shoals poking out from the edges on each side of the bay. There is a fair amount of boat traffic, including giant ships stretching up to 1000 feet (300 m) in length and rising high above the humbled pleasure boats. These ships must stay in the channel to avoid running aground. Still, it can be a game of frogger while navigating through all the happenings of the Chesapeake Bay. The Chesapeake is considered to be wonderful sailing grounds, with many quaint towns, inlets, and bays lining the coastline. Life on the Chesapeake is more pleasurable when leisurely day sailing from one inlet to the next, anchoring at night with little thought of time and pace other than sunrise and sunset. This was a first, sailing the Chesapeake Bay at night, but not the last. Luckily, we were able to sail the first 24 hours, which saves on fuel and lessens the chance of fouling the propeller on any fishing traps at night.
On day 2, we were exiting the Chesapeake Bay and sailing into the Atlantic Ocean. As the day went on, the wind continued to decrease. I remember the water looking like glass and the sun lowering in the sky. I love the colors on the water and the calm on windless days. Unfortunately, windless days mean the roar of the engine disrupts the peace of sailing. The sun was warm on that November day. The clouds perfectly reflected off the water creating a mirror of the sky. There was a huge pod of dolphins that swam by, creating ripples through the ocean's surface. It was beautiful. This was my first experience sailing the Chesapeake and down the east coast. There is a saying by Cynthia Hand: “You don’t know until you know." I was about to learn a couple important lessons on sailing, weather, and navigation.
It was midnight on our third day of passage. We had been motoring for the last 24 hours with no wind. The owner was on watch from 21:00 to midnight, and I was on from midnight to 3:00 am. When I came up, we were a couple miles southeast of the Cape Lookout Shoal buoys 4 and 6 outside of Morehead City, North Carolina. It was calm. A massive ship was off our starboard beam. The ship displayed three all-around white lights which indicated the length of the tow exceeded 200 m. The owner and I discussed the ship and meaning of the lights, partly because this was his second experience on night shift and partly because I would like him to stay away from all lights at night on the water. Again, “you don’t know what you don’t know.” I was very green in passage making, so I had been studying up on ship lights for night sailing. What is the meaning of all the ship lights? Which direction are they going? Are we on a collision course? The wind started to pick up, nearly howling within minutes. I instructed the owner to stay on the wheel for a moment while I peered out into the darkness and checked the instruments and course. The wind and waves were zero to one hundred in no time at all. I woke the captain. I explained the sudden rise of wind and, now, waves, which he could obviously feel. The captain went to the helm to hand steer. Sometimes sailors experience short squalls with sudden winds up to 45 or more knots, creating wind-driven waves that are usually short in period. Weather forecasts cannot always accurately predict or pinpoint squalls. Some say sailing is 90% “boring” and 10% oh shit, with the hope that no one is panicking during the 10% oh shit part. The scene was a bit surreal: pitch-black skies, howling winds coming from who knows what direction, and waves like a washing machine throwing the Island Packet around. The chartplotter could not hold a heading, so the captain used the compass to keep the bow of the boat pointed at roughly 180 degrees (south), basically away from land. In the initial moments of "chaos," we dropped the main and started the engine. Thank goodness the jib was already furled. Even with the engine running at 2200 rpm, the little Island Packet was no match for the wind and waves. For the first hour, our tiny boat icon on the chart plotter didn’t budge a millimeter. We were only a couple miles outside the shoals of Cape Lookout. The ideal would be moving away from land and shallow water. We were not moving at all. The owner was sitting on the port side. I sat on the starboard side peering out of the isinglass with my arms wrapped around the winch. We were all calm. We made small talk, observed our experience, and waited for the weather to calm down. There was nothing to do but get through it. The best thing to do is remain calm and keep your wits and self in check. The situation was not worsening. It was the same scary and, after time, it becomes the new normal. With such an adrenaline rush and constantly looking at the compass while hand steering, the captain needed a break. Next, I was on the helm. I stayed focused and maintained the course heading of 180 degrees-ish. As I stood behind the wheel, peering down at the compass with nothing to see in the darkness of the night outside of our bimini, I saw the depth sounder registering 50 feet and zero, 50 feet and zero. The depth sounder is a transducer under the boat, letting you know how much water you have below you. I redirected my focus on the compass, and kept the boat aimed at 180 degrees south. After another hour, our tiny boat icon on the chart plotter started to move away from land. We were moving! The situation was getting better. From midnight until 6:00 am, we waited for the weather to subside or the sun to come up. They both came around at the same time. We still had some 8–10-foot rollers (waves that were not breaking), and the wind was decreasing. No one went down into the cabin during the storm; it was too dangerous. Once we had light and the weather was calmer, we accessed our situation. We were 18 nautical miles from Morehead City inlet; there was possibly more weather coming in a couple of hours, and we needed to re-group. We decided to motor to Morehead City.
We arrived at Morehead City Transient Docks mid-morning. The sun was shining, and the second weather system forecast never came. I had reached out to a friend, pilot, potential and future client that I had been speaking with over the last months. Note: Pilots know a lot about weather patterns. In addition, he is a North Carolinian and knows the local weather patterns well. Come to find out, we had been in a weather bomb, just outside of the shoals of Cape Lookout. After hot showers, the captain and I went to lunch to discuss what happened and the next leg of our passage. I studied the forecasts and our position between Cape Lookout off Morehead City and the Frying Pan Shoals off Southport, North Carolina, and we decided to continue down the ICW (Inter-Coastal Waterway) and pop out again at Southport. We would avoid another potential storm and by-pass the Frying Pan Shoals. We stopped at anchorages and marinas overnight while on the ICW in North Carolina. The ICW is only navigable during the day due to narrow channels and bridge openings.
The next evening, we docked at Harbour Village Marina. We arrived just before sunset. The captain and I took a walk up to the marina office for some snacks and to poke around their facilities. We walked out of the marina office, greeted by the dockmaster and a foul smell of sewage. We pan to the right. A catamaran with three men had docked at the fuel dock to get fuel and a pump out. One man stood on the starboard hull of the catamaran, covered in blackwater. The dockmaster said, “This is only the third time I have seen this happen” in my 20 years here. Apparently, the blackwater tank was so full and pressured that when they opened the deck fill plate, all the contents of the blackwater tank had erupted in a geyser. The man who opened the deck fill plate, the deck, and the starboard hull were covered in shit. We accessed the scene. There was a couple who had been enjoying the sunset over cocktails on their large motor yacht sitting on the dock in front of the catamaran. They promptly rose and went inside, sliding the door closed behind them. It was time for a little dock walk, preferably farther from the marina office. We were admiring the different boats when we heard a “tink, tink, tink." We looked over and saw another man on the catamaran at the fuel dock with a winch handle and hammer trying to open the port side waste deck fill plate. We didn’t stick around for the potential second geyser.
We continued south on the ICW. After the weather cleared and we saw a weather window, we sailed out of the Southport Inlet towards Charleston, 120 nautical miles south. The owner had a friend who would board in Charleston. He would sail the southern half of the passage with us.
We arrived in Charleston to pick up the owner’s friend. Since it was going to be a short stop, or so we thought, we docked up to the maritime pier where the Charleston Harbor Tours operate from. It was the easiest place for him to get to by taxi. After a quick phone call between the owner and his friend, it would be an hour before he arrived. In the meantime, we decided to leave the owner onboard while we went for coffee and croissants. We loosened the dock lines because there is a 5–6-foot tidal range in the area. When we returned, all we could see of the Island Packet was the top half of the mast. The dock is for larger vessels, so the deck of the Island Packet was 2-3 feet below the dock at high tide. We had climbed up to go for coffee and croissants. The tide had dropped considerably. Our fourth crew member, the owner's friend, had arrived. To get down to the boat, the captain had to lower all 5' 2" of me, while the owner guided my foot to a stanchion where I could step down onto the deck. The captain and owner's friend managed to get onboard without much trouble—a little stretch and muscle to lower themselves down. The owner’s friend is an engineer in the US, but originally from Transylvania. Yes, he has a really cool accent. He had never been on a sailboat before, nor had he been on the ocean. Ok, great.
We continued sailing south from Charleston. Florida was our next destination. The captain had another job starting in a couple of days. We decided to come into the Ponce de Leon Inlet just north of Cape Canaveral to drop him off. I would stay aboard. This was approximately 250 nautical miles, or a 2-day sail following the coastline. We had 4 crew members aboard for this next hop. We did four 3-hour shifts, but either the captain or I would stay on shift with the new sailor pulling a double shift.
We sailed 2 days without incident. Land was in sight. We were accessing the inlet when we saw a catamaran approaching the inlet too. Could it be? What are the chances? It was the catamaran from North Carolina that displayed a geyser of shit for everyone to see and smell. I am sure they were thinking the same thing.
The Ponce de Leon inlet is no joke, with shifting shoals and narrow inlet building waves to carry you in or meet you at the bow. A great way to get local knowledge on unfamiliar inlets is to call Sea Tow or another authority in the area. They are always more than happy to help.
After dropping off the captain, we motored south on the ICW, stopping each evening at a marina, mooring, or at anchor. There are a lot of bridges on the ICW, some at the standard highway bridge height of 65 feet, and many that require openings for sailboats to pass. Our mast stood 54 feet off the water. The further south you go, the more bridges there are. A good resource to use is an ICW guidebook that gives you lots of information, from bridge heights to opening times to anchorages, moorings, and marinas to restaurants along the way. Navigating the ICW efficiently requires a bit of planning to arrive at bridges near the times they open and plan where you will be at sunset. By sunset, you need to have an anchorage, mooring field, or marina close by to stop for the evening. The owner and I took turns helming and teaching his friend all things navigation, bridges, and currents on the helm.
One of the more memorable stopovers was at the Jensen Beach Mooring fields south of the 65-foot Jensen Beach Bridge. We were running full days, dawn to dusk, to make our way south as fast as possible. It was dusk, the light was fading fast, and the wind was howling around 25 knots blowing from the east over the expanse of water in that area. The water was choppy, and the energy in the air was intense on deck. There is a mooring field just south of the bridge. I was on the bow, ready to pick up the mooring. The owner was at the helm. We were getting blown around, making it difficult to pick up a mooring ball. He was nervous steering through the mooring field. Understandably, the wind was kicking. I think we all felt a bit of pressure to get on a mooring before the light faded from the sky. This is not an area where sailors can be laisse-faire about navigating at night. The mooring field is off a narrow channel, and there are shallows surrounding the moorings. The owner’s friend was encouraging and calm in nature. I understood, through conversations along the way, that he had seen a lot in his lifetime. Picking up a mooring in windy conditions with land in sight on both sides was not a big deal. He helped communicate between the owner on the helm and me at the bow, since the wind was drowning out our voices. Eventually, with what seemed like 1 minute of light to spare, we got the mooring and tied up. Once back in the cockpit, protected by the dodger from the wind, the energy settled, and the whiskey warmed us up. One more day down.
The next morning, we set out at first light. The owner maneuvered out of the mooring field. We ran aground 3 short miles later, just south of the Ernest Lyons Bridge. Since that day, I have witnessed multiple owners run aground here. The first red channel marker is quite a distance from the bridge. The green channel marker is even further away. The distance from the bridge to the channel makers is about 3500 feet (.35 nautical miles). The water on either side of the narrow channel is only 3-4 feet deep. It can be tricky, even if you are checking the bridge marker behind you and the marker in front to confirm you are inside the channel. The wind was blowing from southeast to northwest. There we were, on the west side of the channel, being rocked gently into shallower waters. The good news, we were aground, and it is unlikely that we will drift back into the lower sections of the bridge where it meets the shoreline. The bad news, we were aground. The owner maneuvered for 15 minutes to free the Island Packet. The wind was blowing us into shallower water, and it felt like we were digging ourselves deeper. I asked, “Do you have the full coverage on Sea Tow?”. He did. It wouldn't cost a thing for a short tow. I took his friend to the bow, and we deployed the anchor for safety. The owner called Sea Tow. It would be a half hour until they arrived. We all sat in the cockpit with a cup of coffee while we waited. Occasionally, I checked our position relative to the bridge and where we initially ran aground based on land sights. The next time I went to check the anchor and position, I noticed we were floating. I ran back to the helm, started the engine, and instructed the owner’s friend to weigh anchor, announcing, “We are floating; let’s go!” Within seconds, he had the anchor up, and I was backing and maneuvering into the channel. I was kicking up a little mud, but we were moving. Just as we got into the channel, Sea Tow was zooming towards us. I got on the radio to explain what happened and thank them for their time. Off we went! We continued south for the next couple of days, enjoying the shoreline sights, boat traffic, and the company.
Our last night, we docked at Boynton Harbor Marina, which had fuel, hot showers, and restaurants. This was my 14th day on the Island Packet. Unfortunately, they did not have showers. This would be my first shower on the Island Packet. I had showered at marinas in North Carolina and central Florida and, in between, cleaned up with body wipes. I was really looking forward to a hot shower after a couple of days of body wipes. I went into the head, which was a combination shower, toilet, and sink, typical on this size of sailboat. I turned on the water, and pink liquid poured out on me. I side-stepped to avoid the shower spray. I tried to turn the water off, and the knob came off in my hand. The water was not coming out of the showerhead anymore; however, it was spraying out of the wall directly at me. I was making quite the commotion and had the port window open for ventilation. I put my hand up to divert the spray and managed to reattach the knob to the hose behind the wall by reaching through a cabinet. The spray slowed to a slow leak behind the wall into the bilge area. I surrendered to the moment, rinsed with clean water from the sink, dried off, and got dressed. I sent the owner's friend in to properly reattach the knob and hose. We shut the water pump off, so he didn’t have the same experience that I did. The pink water was anti-freeze. Apparently, the owner had forgotten to flush the lines to the shower at the beginning of summer. He and his guests had showered at the marina all summer, so I was the first to use it. I said, “Well, your lines are running clean now. Let’s go to dinner.”
The next morning would be our last, with 25 nautical miles to go and 13 bridges ahead of us. The bridges have times when they open, for example, on the hour, the half hour, or the quarter hour, so timing is key. I was honing my skills in navigating the ICW to make every bridge and arrive by sunset. By midafternoon, we arrived in Dania Beach, our final destination. It had been an eventful learning experience that I will forever be grateful for. We all met for dinner that night feeling accomplished, hungry, and ready for a couple of days of rest after our adventures together.
This was a passage of many firsts: first time around Hatteras, first time in heavy weather, first time sailing south along the east coast of the US, first time in the Charleston Harbor, first time on the ICW in North Carolina and Florida, first time seeing a geyser of blackwater (shit), and more. I learned a lot about weather windows, accessing multiple well-sourced forecasts, taking into consideration shoals like those off of North Carolina, currents and streams of the oceans, navigating new inlets, harbors, and the ICW. Since the Island Packet delivery job, I have run the Florida and North Carolina ICW a dozen times. I have sailed 7,500 nautical miles north and south along the east coast. I have sailed around Hatteras a handful of times, and ran inside on the ICW to by-pass Hatteras the same. I have not seen a geyser of shit coat a man and his catamaran, nor showered with anti-freeze since this delivery. I suppose there is still time.
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