More pictures

A wordier post will be forthcoming, but for the moment I'm just too tired so here is some eye candy for you to enjoy.

The anchorage at Whiteside Creek, SC

Coming in to Charleston we were second in the procession of boats

The sun setting on our offshore run from Charleston to Sisters Creek near Jacksonville

I never tire of seeing these guys. They make me smile.

Barefoot Marina in North Myrtle Beach, SC

Typical ICW view

Another typical ICW view

Leaving the Charleston Harbor for our offshore run

The second morning of our offshore run. The fog socked in right around Cumberland Island, GA

Playing the waiting game

The mud flats east of Charleston

One of the things they never tell you in Cruiser 101 is how much time you'll spend sitting around waiting. If you have a sailboat with a five foot or better draft like we do, especially one that doesn't maneuver in broadside winds or currents like Kintala you'll have to plan around those winds, tides, and currents to move pretty much anywhere. We're sitting in Cooper River Marina in Charleston and our next jump is going to be in the ICW due to approaching weather. The next portion of the ICW happens to be the Mud Flats, a notorious portion that lays 3 feet deep at low tide for several miles. This means that we have to be at the entrance to it at mid tide to high, when the depth is up 3 feet and will leave us with just one foot under the keel. By the time we finish the transit of it the tide will be mid tide to low, the same three feet up from low, and we hopefully will not go aground. In 2013 when we transited this portion we did the same thing and still managed to plow  rift in the mud for over a quarter mile. So we sit, catch up on blog posts, do weather planning, top off the water tanks, carry out the trash, and wait.

We had a good time here. The marina is way out in the middle of nowhere and would not be a very good place to provision if you didn't have a car, but the scenery is pretty and the on-off access to the transient docks is excellent. It's also a great place to exercise these boat-stagnant legs since there's an elevated walkway from the transient docks to the parking lot that spans nearly a half mile. Last night we walked out to meet a long time blog follower, Scott, who lives here in Charleston and whom we had missed in 2013 when we originally left due to scheduling conflicts. We shared an excellent meal at a local Mexican restaurant and got to know Scott and hear his plans to move his boat to New York to be closer to his sons. It's one of the weird things about this lifestyle documented by the blog. There are people who know so much about us of whom we know so little, but it presents such a tremendous opportunity to meet new friends. We look forward to hearing updates on Scott's voyage soon.

Our waiting is starting to bring on some pressure of a deadline, something that we hate and try to avoid at all costs. Deadlines are dangerous to boaters of all kinds and, while we thought we allowed sufficient time to get to Annapolis before our May 16th flight out, the weather may have some other ideas. It certainly seems it will drive us onto the ICW, something else we're not keen on. So for now, we sit and wait.

Cutting the grass

Fernandina Beach anchorage.

Kintala has found her way to Charleston, SC. In five days and three nights of sailing she has covered nearly 500 nm, lying now about 375 nm north of West End. Friend Kacey, who recently moved from IL to Savannah, arrived this morning for a visit. One of my brothers lives here as well and we hope to get together; something that doesn't happen near often enough. It will be a few days before we set out again.

I am glad of that for, truth to tell, the press to get from West End to here was not as enjoyable as I had envisioned. We have managed some good sailing, made our longest passage so far, handled unexpected conditions with a certain amount of aplomb, and not broken anything. A lack of wind forced the Beast to be awake for much of the trip, which meant hand steering. It turns out hand steering for a short-handed crew gets more tiring on an exponential curve. Hours at the helm later in the trip become multiples more difficult than those at the start. It just flat wears a body out. A day, a night, and a day is about it without an auto-helm. After that heaving-too for a few hours would be about the only safe choice. And that does not include the energy burned if multiple sail changes are required say, in the middle of the night in a sudden 30 knot blow.

Fernandina Beach sunset.

No more turquoise water. Gunmetal gray and cold.

A few days of resting, visiting, and catching up on sleep, food, and quiet times is a gift very much appreciated. We are roughly 1/3 of the way to where we need to be. When it comes time to set out again it would be good to be looking forward to the traveling rather than dreading the miles. If we had to leave today I would be dreading the miles, and that is a bit discouraging. Until these last few days I have always really liked being “under way”. Moving along, nav systems humming, making adjustments for the weather, tweaking the course, making an ongoing series of decisions about the route; to be under way is to be in a unique place known mostly to pilots and sailors. It is a free-form, flowing, evolving bit of life imitating art; creativity for the technocrat. But somehow these last few legs have been more like grinding out a report for the boss rather than writing a short story for the fun of it.

The only other cruising boat we saw between Fernandina Beach and Charleston

I guess I have should have been expecting that to happen. This is, after all, the way we live; not something we do on the weekends. Sometimes you get to plant in the garden. Sometimes you have to cut the grass. And usually, after cutting the grass, it is time to take a break.

Another hitchhiker. They always seem to be warblers.

I want to go back to de islands mon, where the water and sky be blue and the sand be white.

Any port in the storm

Yet another cold front, yet another long night of thunderstorms with wind gusts near 40, tornado watches and warnings, heavy rain, and low visibilities. The ugly started ramping up late yesterday morning and didn't start to fade until around 0430 this morning. The highlight of the evening was having one of the crew-less boats drag completely through the anchorage and fetch up against the Charleston's Mega-Dock (you could look it up) a scant 100' or so behind the $9.5 million, 150 foot, super yacht Francine. Yikes. A little later a 40 power boat wandered in out of the rain and worked at dropping a hook, finally getting it to hold on the fourth try. She now rides placidly off our starboard side looking none-the-worse for the trip.

The rusty steel ketch in the center is the anchor dragger

Aside from the dragging boat (which fortunately didn't get anywhere near Kintala), riding out the weather on the hook was much less harrowing than was the night in Oriental. It must be admitted the Oriental front was much worse; but either way it makes for a long night. Back in Carlyle cold fronts would often be as mean or meaner, and moved much faster. Their assault could be vicious but short lived, then you could call the cops or the medics as needed. Here on the ICW the fronts methodically beat on you for hours on end. It is an entirely different experience.

A different way to Christmas carol...

I can't say I enjoy either one.

The frontal passage has brought a forecast of a nice weather window for the next several days, with winds out of the west and north at 5 to 15 knots and waves 3 feet or less. It seems like a good chance to jump outside, put up some sail, settle in for 40 hours or so and not come back in until FL is off the starboard side. Here soon we will head to a dock to load fuel and water, unload some “used” water, do some laundry, maybe take a long shower, eat well, sleep good then, in the morning, be ocean sailors again.

I hope Kintala agrees. We'll see.

Charleston Walk-about

We took a walk-about today along the streets of old Charleston, a city which exudes an atmosphere of old money, the scent of which is mingled with the cigars once made here and the rich perfume of the azaleas, gardenias and crepe myrtles which anchor nearly every well-tailored garden along the picturesque streets. Centuries-old homes sit regally presiding over the streets, many with signs placed by the Preservation Society of Charleston, providing a window to the history of this city to any interested passers-by. The homes are closely spaced on the blocks, yet there is no feeling of being crowded. For the most part, the doors into the homes are  not on the front, but rather on the side of the home, which welcomes the visitor with a small courtyard, established gardens,walkways, and fountains,some behind stone walls, and all with ancient overhanging shade trees. There are columned porches on every floor which span the length of the homes and provide space for large porch swings and hammocks strung across the corners.

These homes are monuments to a slower way of life, a life without the ravages of media, where conversation was entertainment enough and courtesy expected. As you walk by, it's easy to imagine the frosted ice tea glasses dampening the lace doilies on the wicker tables as neighbors laughed and fanned themselves trying to escape the heat of the day. The horse-drawn carriages still roll through town, now manned by tour guides whose colorful renditions of history grow with each telling.  It is easy to be swayed by nostalgia in this town, a yearning for a simpler life, but the reality is that life was hard then, as evidenced by the dates on the nearly faded tombstones in the church cemetery. Most of them tell of tragically short lives, with very few over the age of 30. The cemetery is laden with unrealized dreams.

If our short time as cruisers has taught me anything, it is that I am extraordinarily grateful to be doing this thing we have worked so long to do. A dream is a precious commodity rarely formed or realized today and I strive always not to take it for granted. Charleston is one of those places that really brings it home.

Our waterfront Charleston home

Captain Lee

"Ahoy Kintala."

I looked up from whatever it was that I was doing. Close aside was a decrepit dinghy that appeared to be held afloat by the string of fenders laced around its perimeter. I recognized it as having been tied to an equally decrepit little sail boat anchored nearby.

"Ahoy" I replied, "What can I do for you Captain?" (Everyone around boats seems to call everyone else "Captain". When it Rome...)

Captain Lee (that's exactly how he introduced himself) had come by to suggest that we had anchored too close to his vessel, particularly with the wind about to shift to south. I was pretty sure that we were okay since the tide has changed several times since we arrived, swinging all of the boats through 180 degrees each time. But I suggested we would keep a close eye and, should it seem a problem, would surely pull up our hook and move. He seemed satisfied with that and then shared that he was retired military. Sadly that didn't surprise me at all.

In our short time as cruisers we have seen dozens of truly sad, barely floating little boats moored or anchored in places where they have obviously been sitting for months, or years. Many are lacking sails, others even lack masts, all show neglect and reek of poverty. Almost inevitably, when one of these dilapidated hulls is occupied, the resident is a veteran living alone. The ones we have run across have a stubborn air of pride; they are also care worn, unkempt, with bad teeth, weary eyes, and bodies used hard and neglected. Share just a few words and it is quickly evident that many of them have spirits and minds used equally hard, and equally neglected.

This nation should be ashamed of how it has treated these people. It should be, but it isn't. Instead it offers a cheap sort of pity even more offensive than the original arrogant neglect. These men (they have all been men so far) deserve better but you, I, and they, know it is never going to happen. Some of them have come "out here" to do the best they can with what remains.

I don't understand a society that would do such a thing and am not sure how close to it I want to be, which is a part of the reason I am "out here" myself. Regardless of how poor these men are, how ill, how unkempt, or stoned, drunk or just plain crazy, they are still better human beings than those who used them up and tossed them away. I would rather share an anchorage with them than any elected official I can name.

Charleston and some numbers

Waterfront from our anchorage

Charleston, SC! I’m not exactly sure why Charleston is a milestone. Maybe it’s that my brother lives here. Maybe it’s because we may be done with the ICW, at least for now. (This last stretch today was ugly, with Kintala dragging her keel through the mud for nearly 1/4 mile even though we waited deep into the rising tide before leaving.) Or maybe it’s because I always thought of Charleston as being south enough to be out of serious winter weather. (Though it will be 29 degrees come morning; close enough to winter when at anchor.) Milestones are good places for reviews.

Old Charleston from our anchorage

 

We left Oak Harbor 54 days ago and have been underway 19 of those days; roughly 33%. With a total of 121:30 hours underway we averaged just shy of 7 hours per traveling day and (with 629 nm covered) a little over 33 nm / day at 5 knots. Wind and weather pinned us in Fisher’s Bay for a day, in the Solomons for two days, and in S. Santee River for another day. A day was spent in Mile Hammock Bay to visit. The Neuse River treated us to a mild spanking while the storm in Oriental was the worst we have seen, with boats damaged all around us on a scary night. Marinas = Oak Harbor, Calvert, Centerville, Oriental, and Barefoot; with the quality and amenities varying wildly regardless of price.

Things discovered so far:

I really like living on a boat.

An electric windless would be a slice of heaven.

Not having a work to report to and a boss to answer to IS the best revenge. (Though I'm still spitting mad that some obscenely rich people threw my job in the trash so they might be just a few pennies richer. Come the revolution ...)

Deb and I are an even better team than I suspected we might be.

Skype is my favorite technology. Doing this without a GPS and chart plotter would be much harder; but doing this without Skype would be impossible. I miss the Daughters 3, Grand kids 7 and Son-in-Laws 2 enough that some nights my heart hurts. Skype, blogs, web pages, and e-pictures make it better.

I can see some advantages to the whole power-boat-condo-on-the-water thing, particularly when it is wet, cold, and the days are short. But Kintala will do for the foreseeable future (and fuel isn’t getting any cheaper).

Sorry but I don’t like the ICW much. Had I to do it over Kintala would go in the Ten-Tom and we would be in the Gulf of Mexico now. (Yes Thorste
n, you were right all along. Please tell Joel and Emily.)

I was thinking our cruising life had gotten off to a slow and rocky start. But I guess we are doing okay.

What is it they say about glass houses??

I took this picture for my daughter who loves the tiny house concept. It's hard to get an idea how small it is until you look above the roof behind the trees at the balcony of the regular sized house next to it. The tiny house is about the size of the average garage.

This house took up half a block.

You know you're living large when you have this catamaran parked outside your condo...

One of the hundreds of derelict boats that we've seen, some of them even have people living on them.

Fort Sumter just south of the Charleston Harbor

The Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge is the longest single cable stayed span in North America