Second Half of the Cruise: Less of a Marathon to Marathon

Cinderella  with double reefed main and staysail, in Hawk Channel on our next-to-last day. Almost done!

So I had this profound insight: even a great job has bad days. And having an awesome life doesn't mean that every single minute of every single day is perfect, or even pleasant. That ridiculously obvious perspective shift was all that it took for me to refocus my thinking after Vero Beach and start enjoying the trip again, taking the days more or less as they came.  Patience is not my strong suit, never was and never will be, but my new perspective helped me maintain my mental balance. We had just over 200 miles to go, and expected to arrive at our destination in about 2 weeks.  We can do this!

And it turned out that it was a good thing that I had my "revelation" because we continued to be constrained by weather the rest of the trip. We stayed inside the ICW the entire way to Miami, tackling many timed bridges in preference to being in the ocean in high winds. We had a Coast Guard security escort due to a VIP visitor at Palm Beach; spent a great layover day Thanksgiving Day at the apartment of friends Phil and Kay (Under the Boom) joined by the crew of Octopussy; and pulled into an anchorage near Miami and were surprised to be greeted by friends Bill and Erin who informed us that this spot was a longtime favorite of theirs. Then it was an easy hop to Marine Stadium, one of our favorite anchorages near Miami, where we settled in sheltered from what we knew would be several days of 20+ knot winds. We were almost immediately greeted by a couple of guys, friendly strangers, from one of the other boats also anchored there. They had an odd accent that I couldn't place. Turned out they were a couple of engineers from Israel who, along with the girlfriend of one of them, were restoring a classic Hunter sailboat. We had lots of geeky conversations about LEDs and solar power and amp-hours and watts to pass the time while the wind howled. Also, too many beers!

Just south of Marine Stadium, when the wind finally lessened four days later, we sailed into what was the beginning of new territory for us. We saw historic Stiltsville in the distance as we headed to the south end of Biscayne Bay with a strong but weakening north wind behind us, and at the end of the day were anchored near the end of Angelfish Creek, a pretty mangrove-lined cut leading out to Hawk Channel and the Gulf. The entrance and exit were somewhat shallow, so we waited for morning, and a higher tide, to motor through.

The Hawk Channel lies on the ocean side of the Florida Keys, protected by the second-longest coral reef in the world. Only Australia's Great Barrier Reef is longer. It looks and feels like sailing in the ocean, but it's only 20-30 feet deep even several miles from shore. It was plenty bouncy, but the reef softened the worst of the waves. The water was a stunning turquoise color and clear.  Unfortunately it was also filled with lobster pots, so we took turns with one of us standing on the side rail keeping a lookout while the other steered.

More patience was required as the anchorage we'd been hoping to stop at to break the trip into two easy days proved untenable with the larger-than-expected waves rolling in from the south. Two hours farther along we found our next option, and tucked in just as darkness and a huge rainstorm fell. It had been a long day, but the good news was that we only had a half-day for our final day and we could explore our new winter home in the city of Marathon in the middle of the Florida Keys.

Our final travel day had a colorful sunrise ... and proved the old sailor's adage "red sky at morning, sailors take warning," because by the time we'd had our coffee and had the anchor up, ominous gray clouds were building all around us. It looked like we were going to get wet for sure, so we got our foulies ready. The sky on the horizon ahead was such a dark gray it was almost blue, and we were headed right for that storm cell.  Oh joy.

Red sky on the last morning of the cruise 

At sea with the limitless horizon, you can generally see weather developing hours before it will reach you. This visibility increases the dread factor, and at the same time gives you plenty of time to get ready. And we watched the individual thunderstorm cells build and track slowly along the horizon.

We were already on double-reefed mainsail plus staysail, a very stable sail configuration for our boat in bigger winds, so we weren't concerned on that score. And those sails were adding about a knot of boat speed to what we could get by motor alone. But it still looked like we were going to get rained on before we could reach the marina.  Old sailing lessons were recalled as we watched one particular nasty cell build and slowly track in front of us, across our path ahead from left to right. We quickly checked the weather radar on the cellphone and confirmed it.  If we slowed down, and steered about 20 degrees left of our true course, further out to sea, we could miss the worst of the storm as it crossed in front of us.  More patience! It cost us an extra hour rocking and rolling in the ocean, but amazingly we stayed completely dry.

The curve of the island and the shoals seemed to go on forever, but finally our new home was in sight, and the sun was shining again. We motored down a sheltered, mangrove-lined channel and followed instructions to our new slip.  With stress, but no drama, we nosed in and handed the docklines to the waiting attendant.  Time for some sleep ... after a celebratory glass of rum!

Some sights we saw along the way:

Doesn't everyone need a lavender tuglet?

This house looks like it belongs in the Swiss Alps, not in the palm trees!

The further south we got, the more developed the shoreline.

Our escort through the security zone: first the sheriff, who handed us off to...

... the Coast Guard. They were professional as always, but watched us closely.

Anchored in Lake Boca Raton in the Fort Lauderdale area for Thanksgiving. "Lake" seemed an odd name for it; it was almost perfectly rectangular and again, all the shorelines were developed.

Ahh, this is more like it! This is the anchorage where we found Bill and Erin.  (and an opportunity for a quick morning skinny-dip)

Sunrises and sunsets bookend our days at sea, and watching them never gets old.

The view of the Miami from Marine Stadium

Same view, at dusk

M/V Theory and M/V Proof, in Manatee Pocket. What are the chances that these two boats just happened to dock side by side?

"Velcro" Beach

Officially, this is "hook and loop fastener" -- known to everyone as Velcro

Vero Beach is also where I Hit.The.Wall, melted down and hated cruising. The town is nicknamed "Velcro Beach" among cruisers, because people tend to get "stuck" there and stay there far longer than they had planned . Usually they stay because the place is pleasant enough, lots of social opportunities to meet other cruisers, easy access to practical necessities, and inexpensive and secure docking, good restaurants and a nice beach. It's far enough south that it's finally warm, another reason for people to stay a bit longer than they originally planned if they were tired of the grind of pushing steadily southward. That's not normally been the case for us; I was never particularly taken by the town. Our friends Larry and Suzi of the Frugal Mariner blog are former cruisers who were the ultimate victims of "velcro." They bought a house in Vero Beach when they decided to move ashore. While we were in town they  were excellent hosts and showed us a couple of nice restaurants, the art museum and the botanical gardens, as well as their own lovely nautical-themed house, and it was plain that they loved their new adopted hometown, but for whatever reason that town still just didn't click for us.

We were having interesting conversations with pleasant people, and were safe from any bad weather.  But I was frustrated. We couldn't go on because of high winds, so we were stuck longer than we'd planned to be there ... velcroed! And not by our own choice, which made it infinitely worse. Although sticking around gave us a chance to join in to the regular Thursday evening happy hour jam session, still, I wanted to be moving again.  I was frustrated, in fact, I was done. I was sick of doing the logistics, the elegant dance of planning I usually enjoyed -- balancing the timing of the tides, weather routing, picking secure anchorages. I didn't feel like I was having 7 years of great cruising experiences, I felt like I was having the same experience, 7 times. The trip suddenly became a grind. We'd have one good day, then a series of windy ones, then another good one, followed by a series of windy ones. On the good days we'd run from the safe anchorage we were in, to the next safe spot, where we'd hunker down and wait for the next nice day and time to run again. I was ready to quit and try something else. Maybe camping in Alaska; or going back to Michigan and housesitting; parking the boat someplace and buying a car, or an RV, and exploring the Rocky Mountains; kicking the tenants out of our condo and moving back ashore for a while; going to the Galeon again...I didn't know what I wanted, but whatever it was wasn't what I had right now.

I tried counting my blessings.  Shoot, some of my friends had it so much worse than being trapped in Vero Beach by high winds.  Some of them were still stuck in North Carolina or Virginia (in November) with boat issues. I should be grateful that we were warm, and with a boat that was performing great.  But it doesn't work like that, comparisons don't.  There will always be someone better off than you, and someone worse off. But reality is what you feel right now, and what I felt was ... resentment. And even though many people we talked with thought our life afloat was a wonderful fantasy, we knew that really it wasn't all beach drinks with little paper umbrellas and magical sunsets. But still, I had chosen this life, and if I didn't like it then I had the power (and perhaps even the obligation?) to change it.  But there was really nothing wrong, we were safe even if trapped by weather, which only made me more frustrated. I needed some perspective.  My friend Beth said it best - the secret to her happiness is knowing the difference between an inconvenience and a tragedy. Logically, I knew that eventually the weather would moderate and we'd move on.  We wouldn't turn 85 years old and still be sitting in Vero Beach waiting for calmer winds to continue south. But I was having trouble convincing my hindbrain of that.

The weather finally moderated and let us move on, but I muttered and grumbled every morning as we got ready to get underway. I was so done. Life was too short. This ultimate frustration had happened to me once before, and there was no specific thing that made it better, it just gradually lifted, and lifted some more. This time was the same. As soon as the weather lightened enough that we could move on, my mood lightened as well. There were new places to visit, cruising friends to connect up with.  Onward!

(Note: My apologies, somehow the draft version of this post was published on 12/31/16. I had had a bunch of edits that were lost. 1/1/17 I've tried to update incorporating as many of the edits as I could remember. Disappointing.)

Southbound to the Keys 2016 (Part 1)

How evenings at anchor are supposed to be

With the boat put back together, the weather settled again, ICW generally back in shape, our doctors' appointments complete, early voting done, things shuffled into storage and back, and generally the mess of errands necessary before a long trip accomplished, we were ready to sail south. We left St Augustine on the high tide, mid-afternoon of election day. We only traveled about 10 miles before anchoring for the evening, but we were in a different world - quiet, peaceful, surrounded by nature instead of city noises.  Our cruise had begun!

To say we were disappointed in the election results would be beyond an understatement, but we were soothed a bit watching the pelicans going about their morning fishing like every other morning; at least for now the world goes on. We had our coffee and breakfast smoothies, raised the anchor and continued south.  There was much evidence of the storm; buildings with blue tarps where roofs should be, broken docks, boats washed up on shore; but the ICW itself was generally where it belonged and almost all the markers were in place.

We spent the next four days in perfect weather, easy traveling by day and wide open anchorages with views of stars at night.  Just the two of us, in our little private bubble.  Private, that is, except for leaping dolphins and diving pelicans. Quiet, except for the blaze of orange glory that was nearly every sunrise and sunset.  Solitary until just before Vero Beach we heard a familiar boat name on the VHF and friend Jody from Annapolis came past on their catamaran, and we photoed each other's boats underway before, faster than us, they pulled away ahead.  Dan and I both function best with alternating solitary and social segments in our lives, and our brief connection with Jody was the last "solitary" we were going to have for a while.

Jody's photo of us underway near Vero Beach

Vero Beach is a popular spot with cruisers, and people tend to stay a while on its sheltered moorings. It's a practical spot, with easy free bus service to necessities like grocery and hardware stores. For us it was also a chance to reconnect with some folks we'd met on our first cruise, when we were trapped for days by a nor'easter in South Carolina, and stayed in touch via Facebook. They had since sold the boat and moved ashore and were happy to show us their town.

They took us to the lovely McKee Botanical Gardens near Vero

Nope, it's not pixels; the garden had an exhibit of Legos sculptures!

Our next planned stop was Stuart, and some marina time. It was also going to be a chance to connect with fellow bloggers from s/v Octopussy; and the Cynical Sailor and His Salty Sidekick. A hilarious gathering in our cockpit ensued, including a spirited debate on the best use for their last can of pumpkin puree -- pumpkin bread, or curried cauliflower and garbanzo stew, or Caribbean pumpkin soup, or something else.  (We had two extra cans of pumpkin in our locker -- hey! this is not a limited resource!) It was great fun introducing friends to other friends, showing off our boat, and meeting their son again. He was a kid when we left, now at 14 he's clearly becoming an independent person.

Stuart is the halfway point.  Another couple days of rest here and then we continue on the second half of our adventure.

Just another sunrise ...

Collage

I'm reading blogs and Facebook posts from people who are making their way south and dealing with chilly strong winds in the Chesapeake and the northern parts of North Carolina.  I'm feeling smug, sitting here in a thin t-shirt and sunglasses, just a short day's sail north of Georgia.  As we settle into this cruising life, every time we make the trip, we seem to go slower than the previous year, make more stops in different places, and the bar for weather we deem suitable for traveling slowly rises from good-enough to good to better to darn-near-perfect.  And every year,  I find myself enjoying the trip more and more, as it becomes less of a slog southward to a destination and more of an exploration.  We stay in some places longer, and get to know them a little deeper, than we did early in our travels.  My memories are less about the process of sailing this time, and more about the people whose paths crossed ours, and the wonder of the slowly-unreeling film of lowcountry life, passing at average boat speed of 5 knots (not quite 6 mph, or about the pace of a moderate run).

A collage of places that stuck in my memory along this portion of the ICW:

Waiting for the fog to lift coincided perfectly
 with my desire for a second pot of coffee
and a lazy start to the morning, at Camp Lejeune

We'd look at the hodgepodge of houses along the shore
and try to imagine what it would be like to live in one of them.
 "That one?" "Nah, too big." "How 'bout that other one?"
 "Only if we could repaint it."
"This one's gigantic but their guest cabin looks about right for us" 

And sometimes all the houses along the water are HUGE, or
downright pretentious (Wrightsville Beach)

The Cape Fear River can be, well, fearsome, if strong winds
oppose its current of up to six knots.  Today, though, was sunny and calm.
We timed our run to get just a gentle push from the last of the ebbing tide,
and there was no fear.  Don't the loading cranes on the shore look like goofy erector-set giraffes?  

They're even the right color for giraffes!

It's always scary to cross paths with big, fast-moving commercial traffic,
but we were the attraction for this ferry-load of passengers crossing the river.

Motoring along tree-lined canal and
Waccamaw River reaches,
some days are hazy...

...and some are sparkling

Intricate side-channels in the cypress swamps.
I think it would be wonderful to explore these with a kayak or dinghy.

     

Generally, the ICW is a motor trip for most of its length.
Too many twists and turns, narrow cuts, bridges and shoals.
but sometimes, the forces align and we prove
sailing is sometimes possible on the ICW!

We are, as I mentioned, rather ahead of the "pack" of migrating snowbirds, so several times we had normally popular anchorages to ourselves.  Well, alone except for the duck perched on this dilapidated dock.  And silent, except for the occasional bark of a small dog.  I kept looking around for the dog until I figured it out.  Every time the "dog" barked, the duck shook his head.  He had something caught in his throat, I'm guessing, and every few minutes he'd shake his head and cough.  But his cough sounded exactly like the bark of a small dog.  I can see the writeup in the guidebooks now:  Minim Creek -- so quiet, you can hear a duck bark.

This life takes us to lovely places.  Anchorage sunrise ...

... and sunset. 

People in my collage:
We spent an evening laughing with new cruisers who are rapidly gaining experience, fellow blogger Tammy (Things We Did Today) and her husband Bruce.  We'd followed each others blogs for years, but this was the first time we'd met IRL.  And because we'd been reading each other's work for so long, when we met the conversation didn't start at the beginning, we'd covered all that ground online before. Online friendships are fun that way, though somewhat confusing for the spouses, no doubt.  And Bruce rolled with it, politely reminding us of the imbalance by starting a conversation offering an introduction and capsule history of his sailing and how he came to be here, and invited us to do the same, so we were all at least somewhat "on the same page" conversationally.  Shared stories, and giggles, never slowed down from that point until it was time to go home.

We decided to wait an extra day or two, and not coincidentally wait out a predicted storm, in the anchorage in Wrightsville Beach so we could connect with Paul and Deb (Lat43).  We had first met them in St Augustine where they had a car and were gracious enough to offer us a ride for some errands (a standard, but never to be underestimated, cruiser courtesy).   And then to our surprised delight, when we docked in Beaufort, SC several weeks later, we saw the bow of their boat just across the fairway from where we tied up.  This time we were the ones with the car, and we were able to return their favor from 6 months and 250 miles ago.

It's five o'clock somewhere!
Love this set of wall clocks we found in a bar we visited with Paul and Deb.

We also took the opportunity in Wrightsville to go out to dinner with friends Tom and Debbie, who had their boat docked near ours back in Annapolis, but had a house, and careers, in North Carolina.

Meeting up with former Annapolis dock neighbors
Tom and Debbie at a restaurant they recommended.
Extra points for ambiance, and the portions were HUGE!

Columbus Day weekend is the fall sailboat show, and pretty much end of sailing season in Annapolis, but it found us warm and secure at Isle of Palms (just north of Charleston, SC).  Boating season here was still in full swing and there was a non-stop parade of watercraft off the stern of our boat, everything from stand-up paddleboards and jetskis, sailboats and powerboats in a range of sizes.  We were docked next to the eco-tours charter boat, and had lots of interesting conversations with the captain and crew.  And when they came back from trips with more leftover food and wine than they could use and offered it to us, who were we to refuse?

My wonderful sister-in-law Karen and her husband James just love the Myrtle Beach area, and have been visiting for many years.  It always baffled me because they seem to love nature and quiet, but the one time we visited the town we saw a bustling boardwalk with a big ferris wheel and lots of tacky tourist shops; didn't seem like them at all.

Myrtle Beach boardwalk and Ferris wheel, photo from here

So this trip, we arranged to dock at a marina not too far from where they were camped in their travel trailer, and asked them to show us what was special to them about the town.  And she really took the task to heart!  They spent the day driving us here and there, their favorite fishing pier, the hotel they stayed at 20 years ago when it had another owner, the Walmart that was built where a popular miniature golf course used to be, memories of the changes the town has gone through.  They commented on the run-down areas and the glitzy new built-up ones, and took us to check out a marina in the heart of the action as an alternative to the quiet, wooded one we were staying at, since without a car the entertainment options are limited.  We also spent some time exploring their camper, and chatting about the similarities and differences between it and our boat.  Our spaces share the same extreme efficiency of space where all the furniture is either built in or folds down (or folds up), and storage is in whatever odd corner or nook or cranny that isn't otherwise occupied.  Unlike our boat, though, her camper stays FLAT -- all the time!  And even if you mess up, it can't sink!  On the other hand, we can jump off the back of ours to go for a swim.  We don't have to be quite as careful about the added weight of our possessions, since we have a whole hull to hold ours up instead of 4 tires.  And we have unlimited salt water available to flush with.  The funniest coincidence of all though, is that the place they are camped is an RV resort called Pirateland. She insisted they chose the place for its amenities rather than because its piratey theme, which was carried out throughout the park, made her think of us.

In the registration office of PirateLand.
Who would've thought a brother and sister from landlocked Kansas
would both be drawn to the ocean as adults?

They even had this life-size guy swinging from the ceiling

There are some places that we seem to miss every time we come through, or that other people rave about that we just can't understand the attraction.  We made a point of trying to spend time in some of these bypassed places this trip.

Fernandina, the Next Town Northbound

Centre Street -- minus the cars, it almost could've been the Wild West era.  Lots of interesting buildings in the 50-block historic district.  We played tourist, walking around with camera and guidebook. 

So after the pleasant sail, we tied to a mooring in Fernandina harbor for a (planned) week.  Funny that we've never stayed here before.  For all of its historic importance as a huge deep water harbor at the northern extent of Spanish territory in the New World, the harbor has always seemed pretty exposed to us.  On our southbound runs, we have often seen wind against the strong current here creating uncomfortably choppy conditions, and the smoke from industry blowing across the anchorage, so we've sailed right on past.  On our northward runs in springtime, we're usually out in the ocean non-stop from St Augustine, FL to Beaufort, SC, so we had no idea what conditions were like in town.  This time, with the encouragement of a Facebook/history reenactor/pirate friend, we decided to stop and explore -- all in keeping with our plan to make this a very slow trip north this year, with lots of adventures along the way.

It turned out to be a great week.  The first thing we had to do was recalibrate our idea of "old" from St Augustine, where we spent almost as much of our time in the 17th century as the 21st.  Although Fernandina traces its history back to French explorer Jean Ribault in 1562, and has been under 8 (!!) flags since that time, most of the structures in the historic district date from the period of the town's greatest prosperity 1875-1900.  We spent over 3 hours in the local museum -- I love visiting these kind of museums, love the stories small towns tell about themselves.

In town, there was music, farmer's market, good meals in local restaurants, and friends.  We also had plenty of time to unwind watching sunrises and sunsets; most mornings' coffee and evenings' sundowners were spent quietly in the cockpit.  We had several dolphin visits (once including a BABY, how cool!).  One day was windy and blustery enough to confirm my opinion of the anchorage, as it was rough enough that we would've gotten soaked going ashore, so we did nothing but sit around reading trashy novels and then making a simple dinner.   Still, by the end of a week we were ready to move on.  When the next weather opportunity came, we were up at sunrise and out the inlet, setting our course due north.

Peaceful sunset from the anchorage

There are several pirate statues around town.  This one is for my friend Greg, who does a mean blue-eyed Jack Sparrow impression -- the statue has blue eyes!

Gettin' our Jimmy Buffett fix -- friend Hambone and his mother came to visit our boat.

Moonrise over town

We were moored behind this odd structure.  Depending on who you asked, they are either marine archaeologist explorers, or treasure hunters, looking for wrecks in the area, which was a popular harbor with Spanish galleons.

Celebrating EIGHT cancer-free years in the Palace Saloon, oldest bar in Florida.

We made it back to the museum on our last day, participating in a little pirate skit to kick off a tour by Roads Scholars (educational travel group for seniors) (photo by Joy Sheppard)

Hanging out with the pirate crew at Palace Saloon.  While we were there, a girl celebrating her birthday asked if she could take a picture with the group us (of course).  But I never figured out why people would do that, pose with people they never saw before or would see after or care about or even know the names of, just to post on social media ... why, exactly?  To make it look like they were having an amazing time?  But after the photo, she didn't interact with us at all, so its not clear how we helped her have fun.  Sigh.  Oh well, glad to help (whatever it was that we did).  More fun for us, the bar has a resin statue of a "pirate" at the front door.  Some tourists were posing with the statue, and we gave them a good start when a group of us live pirates photobombed their picture with the statue!) (photo by Joy Sheppard)

Here We “Go” Again

Doesn't it look like this egret is dreaming of sailing away? We are too.

The thing I love most about cruising is the interesting (non-cruiser) people we meet when we linger in a place.  In some ways the boat makes that easier -- having the story of living and traveling on a boat makes us somewhat more ‘interesting’ ourselves and opens many doors.  At the same time, the thing I hate most about cruising is saying goodbye to those people as we inevitably move on.  I suck at “goodbye.” Whether it’s leaving a party at the end of the evening, or leaving an anchorage at the end of the season, I’d be happier just ghosting away quietly, no announcement needed, just “e-you later; see you online until I see you again.”

Well, of course it didn’t happen that way, as we delayed our departure for one last happy hour, one more lunch with friends, one last visit to the Castillo or El Galeon, one last time walking down St George Street in pirate garb.  A farewell pizza after work with friend Grace turned out to be a surprise going-away party, followed a few days later by our last Saturday night sail with our friends on Black Raven, and then we all hung out aboard afterward, one last round of drinks together.  Days were spent preparing the boat, topping up fuel and water, checking sails and navigation lights that we haven’t needed in almost 6 months (!!) of stationary marina life.  

I've said it before: I can’t remember when I've had so much fun, or met so many people I liked all in one place, as I have in St Aug.  But we were both feeling itchy and restless, feeling the heat humidity increase and knowing that soon hurricane season will be on us.  It was time to sail north.

So finally, on a bright Monday morning, we went through the Bridge of Lions – ringing our ship’s bell as we passed El Galeon at the dock and getting teary-eyed to see the crew lining the rail waving goodbye (see you in the next port, friends).  At the 9:00 VHF net, instead of checking in as “regular listeners” we checked in during a different part of the broadcast, the “departures.”  And then out the inlet, gently rolling 3-foot seas, and steered a heading due north.

The trip was pretty, and comfortable; our boat had a pleasant motion with the mainsail up, but the ocean seemed to me to be scarily empty of life.  We passed a single pod of dolphins, a total of 6 turtles … and lots of jellyfish.  I couldn’t help but wonder if they were multiplying unchecked because all their predators have been overfished. 

After 10 hours we turned in to the St Mary’s entrance, wide and well-marked for big ships, and tied to a mooring at Fernandina harbor. 

I’m dreaming of visiting new places and reacquainting ourselves with old favorites along the route.  And because our social calendar has been so crammed, because we’ve been in a marina in the heart of downtown, I’m especially dreaming of quiet nights in some secluded anchorages along the way.  Enough city for now, I want nature. Staying on a mooring for a while instead of at the dock is a great first start.

The Azalea Line

Azaleas in Beaufort, SC

The endless winter finally seems to be ending.  There's more sunlight and less wind these days, and I'm starting to dream of blue water, of saying not "goodbye" but "see you later" to our St Augustine friends and places, and heading north.  We're already seeing boats coming through town, staying a day or a week but then continuing north, migrating back "home." (It's always fun to read about ourselves in the blogs of some of these folks, now new friends: Jim and Angie and Paul and Deb.)The first wave of boats that came through had hailing ports in Canada or New England and seemed in something of a hurry -- they have a long way to go.  Now those with more moderate goals in the mid-Atlantic (Annapolis!) are starting to appear.  

In the autumn, the hours of daylight are short.  There's a fairly narrow window of time between the end of hurricane season and the onset of winter and the nor'easters, so every good weather day (and even some marginal weather days) is spent underway for 7 or 8 hours to make miles southward, hoping the encroaching cold weather doesn't catch up to us.  "Grueling slog" is the way I remember that trip.  It's lucky I have a short memory or I'd never want to travel by boat again.  

But in the spring, it's a different story.  We can travel at our leisure and linger in interesting cities and towns, and the penalty for going to slow is only that the weather gets ever warmer.  Instead of the overwhelming sense of urgency we felt in the autumn, the theme of our trip north this summer is not to go too fast: never to be north of where the azaleas are blooming.

Some boats are seasonal commuters.  They migrate from their summer home, where they stay put for a few months, then a month or two underway, traveling as quickly as possible to their winter home, where they stay put for a few months, then travel as quickly as possible back to their summer home.  We've been those people, Annapolis to St Augustine and back again.  We're "home," then "away from home," then "back home again."  This year, though, we are inspired by the insights of two friends to make our trip more of a wander and less of a commute.  

Mark and Diana have a power catamaran.  They can travel faster than we can, and they don't have to wait for opening bridges like we do.  One day I was joking that they could make the trip north in far less time than the 5-6 weeks it would take us.  "Oh, no," Mark replied.  "Our goal is to make the slowest possible trip."  He went on to explain that they'd only travel for a maximum of 3 or 4 hours on the days they traveled at all.  That left plenty of time to kayak up the little creeks in the afternoon, read a good book, or explore the towns they traveled through.  Other longtime cruising friends Stuart and Nancie advised us to own nothing ashore.  If everything you own is with you, then home is wherever the anchor is set and you don't have the urgency to move on to the next place, the place where the rest of your "stuff" is stored.  

So that's our plan for this summer.  We're going to go slow, take a few side trips we've not taken before in our hurry.  We probably won't get all the way back to Annapolis, but we'll see some new things.  Maybe check out North Carolina's Outer Banks instead of sticking to the direct route.  Stay in some pretty anchorages an extra day just to watch the birds or go for a hike.  And for sure, stay south of the azalea line.

Traveling Like a Rock Star

Paparazzi greeting us as we docked in our slip in Morehead City (not really, but that's what it felt like. Image from here.) 

I think of life at sea as requiring traits like independence and self-reliance and the ability to deal with a bit of loneliness.  Our boat is a tiny bubble of light and warmth in a big, uncaring ocean.  (And no fooling – there’s times that even a relatively sheltered bay or estuary can seem plenty big and threatening when the weather acts up.) We and we alone are responsible for making sure we have power and water and generally maintaining our own comfort and safety as we live and travel.

In the weeks since we made our trip south, my memories have softened into a collage, and here’s a paradox.  I didn’t feel independent and alone when we traveled; I felt part of a wonderful tight community of cruisers, whether I met them underway, at the dock, or just as voices on the VHF radio or online.  Most of them, like us, were getting away from winter.  We relied on each other for help, advice, simple favors and companionship, and all were generously given.

Dan and I traveled like rock stars.  Not because we traveled in opulence – traveling by slow sailboat is anything but luxurious in physical comfort terms – but because the trip was organized not so much about the way we were going as the places we were stopping, and the people we could connect with there, like performers on a multi-city tour.

To some extent we had planned the stops on our trip south around familiar ports, or new cities we wanted to explore, spaced the appropriate distance apart (40 miles a day, give or take) and 3-4 days between marina stops unless bad weather forced otherwise.  But really, the entire trip was also organized around seeing friends in those ports.  Fellow traveler Kay was intrigued to hear an unfamiliar boat hail us when we were crossing the Elizabeth River; the boat had recognized our name when we were talking with the Coast Guard on VHF, and just wanted to catch up and compare plans.  And then a few miles later, it was our turn to hail a boat who we’d heard talking, and try to figure out where we could hook up, since we had a book of theirs to return.  “It seems Cinderella is famous in these parts, from Jaye’s presence online,” Kay wrote in her blog. Traveling with you is like traveling with a celebrity, she told me.  “Everyone knows you.”

Kay wasn’t with us when we pulled into our slip in the marina in Morehead City, NC after making some brand-new friends in Oriental, or she would have really been amazed about traveling like a celebrity; I know I was.  There was a small group of people watching us pull into the slip.   And one or two had cameras pointed at us.  My first thought was, “Huh? Wow, paparazzi!  They’ve obviously mistaken us for someone, wonder who?”  My second thought was, “Eek, I hope I don’t do anything awkward on this docking with all these people watching!” Satisfactorily for my dignity, the docking was drama-free, and then I figured out who the audience was…and they hadn’t mistaken us for anyone else, they were there for us.  One of the greeters was a marina dockhand, and there were also a couple of guys who had happened to be on the dock who stuck around just in case their help was needed – it was windy and the current was running – but the other two, and the source of the cameras – were fellow-bloggers Tom and Sabrina.  We had been in touch online and they had known that we were “probably” coming in that day; we had set up to meet for dinner our first chance to meet after following each other’s blogs for years, but it’s impossible to express how wonderful it felt that they’d been listening to the VHF to learn exactly when we were coming in and were there to welcome us.

As we continued down the ICW, our paths would interweave with other boats, we’d hear them on the VHF radio and then find ourselves sharing an anchorage; we’d meet someone on a dock and then find ourselves waiting for a bridge together a week later.  So different from the solitary majesty of travel on the open ocean, our ICW trip was extremely social.

And then, we got to St Augustine. As we came in the inlet, and saw the Castillo (the old fort) completely dominating the horizon, and we saw a puff of smoke and heard a bang of cannon fire – my brain knew it was just by coincidence the scheduled display for the tourists but I live a rich fantasy life and of course that cannon salute was to celebrate our arrival! After we docked we were again greeted by friends that we’d been in touch with online since we left here a year and a half ago; they met us on the dock before we could even reach the shore, and they greeted us with smiles and “Welcome Home.” Welcome not to a physical home, (we bring that with us, floating wherever we go) but to home in that most crucial sense -- the place where you are surrounded by people that know you, care about you, and will help you -- our cruising community.