We spent a pleasant overnight securely hooked to the muddy bottom of a little cove about a mile inside Manatee Pocket. And despite our continual swinging throughout most of the night---fluky winds ricocheted in and out and along the irregular shoreline of this small- harbored residential area, we felt well-rested for the upcoming passage. At about a quarter to seven on April 5th we weighed anchor and slowly made our way out of the Pocket and back into the St. Lucie River for a short twenty-minute run east intersecting with the much larger Indian River. Here we would hang a left and begin our northern journey on the East Coast's Intracoastal Waterway at mile marker 987.

This day would go down as one of our longest passages covering 76.2 statue miles to the Banana River. The Indian River would be our highway heading north, and between the St. Lucie Inlet and Vero Beach, it widens considerable which can prove to be a rough ride when north/south winds kick up into the 20-knot range. We certainly didn't envy the half dozen or so south-bound boats all getting hammered and drenched from the spray completely soaking their bows and decks as they plowed head-on into a 15-plus mph southeasterly. On the other hand, these winds were providing us with a manageable following sea and 10 to 11 knot speeds. Along the way we passed Fort Pierce, Vero Beach and Melbourne plus at least nine bridges---several 'squeekers' (24-26 vertical foot heights), one that needed an opening request and the rest fixed 65-footers. The scenery was flat on both sides of the river and everything from small cottages to high-rise condos and apartment buildings were stacked along the river's banks. As the Indian River narrowed just north of Vero Beach, gawking at the shoreline residences improved and the trip became a little more interesting. After Vero Beach the river opened up and once again we needed to mind our position and drift within the channel. The here-and-there shoaling often times would sneak up close to the channel to grab our attention then quickly retreat leaving generous seven to eight foot depths in case we strayed. Tiny islets randomly dot either side of the waterway. Crammed with stubby trees, various beach shrubbery and clumps of sea grasses and surrounded by inviting white sand beaches, these isolated little oasis' offer great spots to beach a dink and take in a picnic provided there's enough water to pull off the channel and anchor.

The south entrance to the Banana River, situated on the eastern side of the Indian River, divides Dragon Point on Merritt Island and the Canaveral Peninsula. Once clear of the 65-foot fixed bridge, the entrance, off to the right, cannot be missed. There, boldly perched on the very tip of Merritt Island's rocky southern point, rests a 200-foot green concrete Dragon. This monstrous landmark (excuse the pun) has been hanging out on this narrow, jagged extremity since the early seventies when a resident whose house is just a number of yards back from the point, wanted something for her children to play on so she had this dragon created. Quite an impressive backyard toy. However, one might think the Atlantic Ocean and the miles of fine beaches stretching along the peninsula's eastern shores would have been all the playground and sandbox those kids could handle. When we closely passed the dragon, it was obvious this creature---probably a momma dragon because there's a couple of dragonettes next to her on the inside of the point, had seen better days. There were several patches of skin missing from the dragon's side and along her back she wore a thick, white-splayed cloak of seabird ca-ca.

From information generously given us by our seasoned ICW cruising friends, we had learned that on either side of most of Florida's bridge causeways which connect the mainland to the various paralleling barrier islands, there are good anchorages. Naturally the weather dictates which side of the causeway you'd commit your hook to. Dragon Point so happened to be one of the more popular anchoring spots for cruisers headed north or south. Between the point and the fixed bridge immediately to the south there's good holding and the place-of-choice to anchor. Unfortunately we were dissuaded in doing so because an armada of other cruisers, predominately sailboats, had already staked their claim to a spot in the mud. So we meandered through the anchored assemblage and tied-up at a little marina about a quarter of a mile up the river just in front of a noisy swing bridge. On the other side of this creaky little bridge the Banana River becomes considerablely shallow, and any boat drawing more than four feet had best forget cruising its 20-mile channel north to where it eventually connects with the Canaveral Barge Canal. From there, provided you haven't been towed off the sandy bottom or decided to retreat back to the other side of the bridge, you can take a left and link back up with the ICW or hang a right and go to sea.

Leaving Indian Harbor Marina, the dragon and the anchored masses at a respectable 0800 the next day, we resumed chugging north, this time to Titusville while a more subdued following sea than the other day's gently urged Countess on . There was more of the same uneventful scenery highlighted by an occasional binocular-scan in search of something interesting to bark about. Numerous porpoise were the hit of the day. They charged at us head-on only to suddenly disappear and just as quickly reappear swimming effortlessly just inches off our bow or surfing through the series of cresting of waves Countess was quickly leaving behind. This went on periodically for hours as we maintained a good nine knots. Occasionally we were forced to back-off and 'quietly' pass an occasional sailboat or let one of the many humonguous "wave-makers" overtake us at a slower, minimal-wake speed. The pelicans were out in force gracefully gliding just an inch or so off the water. The suddenly one, two or more of these guys would pull up with a 'G-force' climb for about ten or fifteen feet, stall momentarily and then pivot with wings neatly tucked aft and come crash-diving beek-on into (presumably) a school of fish for their breakfast. Whenever the fishing got hot, the waters fountained in concert with the numerous pelican bombardments. Always the opportunist, dozens of small terns would add to the action hungrily squaking at each other and shrilly crying as they fluttered---as close as birdly possible, just above where the pelican had plunged into the water. Then, as a pelican popped to the surface, one of these tenacious little free-loaders would boldly land on his back, and unsteadily try to get close enough to pull-off a snatch-the-catch-'n-fly manuever that would make even the Artful Dodger sit-up and take note. Interestingly, the pelicans took these vain attempts of thievery in stride, always having their take securely pouched. Then it was just a matter of stretching their necks skyward as if to gargle, do a couple of gagging jerks and let their catch slip-slide right down the old gullet. No problem. And as far as I could tell, not one of the terns managed to score even a tid bit from the pelicans. A short time later we began seeing numerous other north-bound Grand Banks, and that reminded us of a GB rendezvous (we passed it up) which had just taken place over the weekend at Grand Harbor Marina near Vero Beach. A 42' GB Classic out of Mobjack Bay, Virginia charged by, later ending up along with another rather large 49' GB heading home to Michigan moored across from us at the Titusville Marina . We specifically wanted to make the Titusville Municipal Marina a several-day stopover primarily because only thirty miles west was Orlando and, of course, 'WallyWorld' (Disney World to those who aren't familiar with the movie, "Summer Vacation" starring Chevy Chase).

By the time we arrived at the marina there was plenty of daylight remaining---the passage was only 38 miles, so I climbed down in the engine room and did the routine 100-hour oil and filter change. This is when I'm really glad we have a single engine as opposed to twins. On our old Countess this used to be almost an all-day chore. The two big 120 Lehmans demanded a quart shy of four gallons of oil, and oil filter and three fuel filters per engine. After Countess' pan was filled with fresh oil, we set to putting our plans into action for a three-day visit to Epcot and Magic Kingdom. We lined-up a rental car from Budget, and made reservations at a hotel in Buena Park, a burb of Orlando---only minutes via one of the numerous shuttlebus to our choice of theme parks.

Titusville appeared to be another one of those not-much-to-write-about towns that had seen better times. However the town did have one true redeeming quality: the Dixie Crossroads restaurant. I bring this up because, our good friends, Janet and Tim Murphy back in Ferndale, Washington, practically made us pledge not to pass up eating there. For this, we are forever indebted to them. This restaurant offers incredible opportunities for greatness in gluttony. Here's what I mean: Dixie Crossroads' specialty is rock shrimp---shrimp tails that resemble in size, not taste, that of a crawdad. These savory morsels taste very much like lobster meat, and are served (tails only) either fried, broiled or steamed...your choice. There are three distinct serving sizes: two dozen, four dozen and---get this, mega dozens (all-you-can-eat). Ordering can be flexible, for example, if at first you think level two (forty-eight of these delectable creatures) will be plenty, but afterwards you realize they're just too good, and decide to take it to the next level, the out-'n-out, all-you-can-eat munchathon. Go for it! The move ups your bill by a nominal $5.00! On our first visit I was conservative only going for the 48-piece plate, steamed. Because the rock shrimp's flavor was so good, I opted for total grazing rights on our second visit. In truth, it was only out of embarrassment that I reluctantly restrained myself from ordering another round after gobbling down the 72nd shrimp tail (each ensuing order after 48 pieces comes in two-dozen increments). I might have missed achieving a spot in the Guinness Book of Records or most surely into the hospital with my own stomach-pump. By no means was I soloing at this place of gastronomic overindulgence, I'm sure I was a lightweight compared to some of the other guests I saw hoovering down on plates and plates of these rock shrimp. Chance even got into the act when, after ordering a special of two chicken lobsters, had to request a replacement because the two they served were the 'runts of the litter'. We both agreed they were definitely undersized and in dire need of steroids. The establishment concurred and immediately brought out another larger tailed lobster. We pushed ourselves away from the table leaving one helluva pile of crustacean shells in our wake. It was pure, sweet carnage, and before going to bed that night we made sure to down an alka-seltzer nightcap.

By mid-morning the next day, we were land cruising west down a four-laner to Orlando. About forty minutes later, after checking into our hotel and purchasing a couple of four-day passes to the whole Disney complex, we found ourselves actually walking through Epcot's impressive main entrance. It was hard to believe visiting this place on a weekday prior to summer break and the traditional vacation high season, that half the world was beating a path to the park at the same time. I can't recall ever seeing so many tour buses at one time in a parking lot. Fortunately there's good pedestrian flow throughout the park, and we only had to wait 20 to 40 minutes for a few of the exhibits at Epcot. Understandably the lines were a bit longer over at Magic Kingdom. But having spent four years in Southern California, occasionally going to Disneyland to get our reality fixes, we knew what we'd be up against at some of the more popular rides inside the Magic Kingdom. The Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted House were nearly 100% identical to those at Disneyland so there was no rush to see them. We thought the Epcot complex as more interesting, especially the quality and attention to detail given to the French, German and Great Britain villages and thier displays and exhibits. The intricate dragon carvings at the Japan pavilion were outstanding. And we had twinges of homesickness when we watched again Canada's film from Expo '86 in Vancouver. We spent just two days doing the Epcot/Magic Kingdom tour, deciding to reserve the remainder of the four-day passes for when we come through in the fall on our way back to Naples, Florida. The whole Disney/MGM park complex is truly overwhelming, and if you ever visit them---more than likely you already have, prepare to spend at least three to four days there to do it justice.

Back at the marina we had to postpone our departure to Daytona Beach for a couple of days due to stiff 25-knot northeasterlies. While we waited out the low to pass, we amused ourselves petting and taking close-up photos of several manatees hanging around the inside marina waters feeding on the patches of sea grass uprooted by the storm's wind and waves. Manatees have heads and bulbous lip-like jowls similar to that of the walrus. On the inside of their jowls and on their tongues are small, conical pointed teeth about a quarter inch in length. It was absolutely fascinating to watch how they ate the seagrass by manipulating their jowls in a gathering motion to bring the grass directly into their mouths. Their hides felt leathery with sparse wiry tufts of hair randomly sprouting out along their sides and backs. We got them to come right up next to us by dangling a hose with running water just off the dock above the water---trolling for manatees you might say. These huge masses of blubber would gently glide up to the trickling water, casually roll over on their backs and take long, long drinks of the fresh water. They also seemed to enjoy having their bellies and chins scratched. Manatees might as well be the state symbol of Florida. There are always numerous 'save-the-Manatees' campaigns going on throughout the state. And a cruising day doesn't go by that we had to slow down to a minimum or no wake speed on numerous occasions while crossing manatee zones throughout Florida's intracoastal. It's rumored that many of these Manatee zones are ploys and actually just there to control boat speeds and reduce wakes. In any case, these sections do slow just about everyone down.

After the second day the winds began to shift more to the east/southeast and, although they remained relatively stiff clocking between 15 and 20 knots and chopping up the inland waters. But less than two hours further up the river the waters are more protected. The Indian River narrows to about a quarter of her normal width some twenty miles north of Titusville, and slowly, as larger chunks of land begin to encroach upon the waterway, the river becomes more like a canal about ten miles south of New Smyrna Beach. Once again we passed under or through numerous bridges, and as we wound our way past New Smyrna Beach we observed scatterings of small, populated areas looking more like fish camps than neighborhoods along the banks of what had now become the Halifax River. Just a quickly as these 'encampments' would crop up, they'd shortly give way to sections untouched by development. Then suddenly, just as we were getting use to the secluded, unspoiled scenery, a complex of high-rise luxury condos would crop-up to remind us we weren't going to escape civilization today. Forty-eight miles and some six-plus hours later we pulled up to the Halifax River Yacht Club in Daytona Beach where we were able to enjoy one of our rare yacht club reciprocals. As we've learned on numerous occasions throughout Florida, if you're not a member of the Gulf Cruising Association (west) or the Florida Council of Yacht Clubs (east), outside yacht club reciprocity privileges is virtually nonexistent. Our success rate tallys four clubs thus far, and each one charged for moorage and electricity.

For a change, our moorage in Daytona Beach was located close to shopping and a West Marine store. Invariably, West Marine, Boats US or Boater's World marine stores always seem to be miles inland away from the marinas. This can be a problem only to be taken care of by an expensive cab ride. A short distance from the clubhouse was the Jackie Robinson stadium where every Saturday a farmer's market takes place. This local's gathering allowed us to stock up on some nice veggies. Across from the stadium is the waterfront's commercial district stretching for at least seven or eight blocks and loaded with a wide variety of retail shops and neat restaurants. We ended up spending an extra day at Daytona Beach to wait out a fairly strong front scheduled to hard-charge through that morning.

The following day, all lines unwrapped from the yacht club's cleats, we eased out of the harbor along a marked skinny channel and, hanging a left and passing through a bridge, we were back on the waterway going north. The day was fair with warm temps, puffy clouds and 10-knot northwesters. Our destination was St. Augustine some 53 statute miles further. Passing such towns as Flagler Beach and Palm Coast we cruised through more unpopulated sections reminiscent of some of our bayou treks in Louisiana. Then an occasional outcropping of civilization would present itself with houses ranging from well-lived in trailers just north of Ormond Beach to luxurious high-risers around the Palm City area. The Halifax River reduces to Halifax Creek about 13 miles south of Flagler Beach and remains so until it gradually loses its identity somewhere near Palm Coast becoming the Intracoastal in name according to our charts.

The waterway carried an average depth of 15-feet all the way to the Mantanzas Inlet where, after coming as close to grounding as we'd ever care to, we snaked our way into and further up the Mantanzas River. Just before we almost went aground prior to entering the river we passed a small island off our starboard side where the remains of the Spanish- built Fort Mantanzas still stands. As a side note, Mantanzas means 'place of slaughter', and correctly so. In the mid-1560's Pedro Menendez de Aviles, founder of St. Augustine, butchered about 300 French frogs, survivors of an earlier shipwreck nearby . Enough history. Anyway, just below the Mantanzas River the channel bends, and if you're not right next to the shoreline---that's three or four yards off, you might end up calling one of the tow boat operators for some expensive assistance. We rudely bounced Countess' keel three times across a shoal before getting back into the channel after we'd somehow drifted slightly off the proper course. It's times like this when I'm glad Countess is driven by a torquey 4-bladed prop. We literally leap-frogged across the bar and back into the channel. Later I talked to a US Boats tow operator in St. Augustine about this particular section of the waterway, and he stated that he pulls three to four boats off that moving shoal just about every day . There's good holding ground just to the east of the St. Augustine City Marina where a lot of boats anchor out and use the dinghy dock priviledges offered by the marina. It only costs $5/day with use of the bathroom facilities. A good deal, but we wanted to visit the oldest permanent European settlement in the continental United States right at its doorstep, and not have to hassle with the dink trips back and forth everyday. Docking proved to be bit of a challenge thanks to a moderately strong river and tidal flow. We had to come in bow first and, although it wasn't the prettiest feat, we got three-quarters of Countess into the slip before horsing the rest of her into place. I later witnessed a lot of other captains have fits lining up their boats and entering the slips. As far as municipal marinas go, St. Augustine ranks near the top: friendly people, clean facilities and right in the heart of town. The only drawback we had was having to walk a considerable distance to a grocery store, and that trip got even longer in direct relation to how many items we bought.

I have mixed feelings about St. Augustine. Given its history and good reports, I suppose I expected a more historical, less commercial setting. But I think that's an impossibility anywhere now days. Parts of the original town had narrow, irregular brick and stone-laid streets and very old, restored and well-maintained dwellings and buildings ala old-town Santa Fe. The primarily tourist-oriented commercial core lines several streets that stretch for blocks from the city's original entry gate next to the Castillo de San Marcos to the main market square only steps away from the marina. There's a ton of little retail shops, some interesting, some tacky. And there's plenty of fine restaurants to keep you from eating on board everyday. The city's Spanish/Moorish architecture is absolutely stunning. Beautifully ornate, majestic in stature and in superb condition, these buildings plus the overpowering presence of Flagler College and the elegant St. Augustine's Basilica Cathedral, the Trinity Episcopal Church, Lightner and Government House Museums made our visit to St. Augustine worthwhile. Not to be over looked is the Castillo de San Marcos, the mid-seventeenth century fort built (it took 23 years to complete) for the protection of the newly established Spanish colony, and considered to be the best preserved example of Spanish colonial fortification in the U.S. The fort is in remarkable shape, and I marveled just to touch its over three hundred year old walls and pace its upper ramparts overlooking St. Augustine bay and inlet.

On one of our days in St. Augustine we had the fortunate pleasure to meet the Farleys from Boca Raton, Florida who had anchored out on their 47-foot Passport sailboat, "Tiamo". Jerry, who took early retirement from IBM, and his wife Sally had decided that now that their kids are grown and out of the nest, they'd like to begin fulfilling their dreams of extended cruising. Along with their two cats, Mishka and Buster, they've been testing the waters so to speak, and had previously made it as far north as Hilton Head Island. This time they planned on reaching the Chesapeake and then further to the Cape Cod area before returning to Florida in the fall. After they sell their house, which is currently on the market, they plan to cruise the West Indies, go through the canal and eventually explore the South Pacific. Needless to say we all hit it off in great form and later linked-up again at Hilton Head Island, Charleston, SC and Baltimore, MD all of which brings up an interesting point. During our travels northward we began seeing boats and dockside acquaintances we had previously come across at other marinas or along the waterway. These 'crossings' have turned our marina stops into quasi-reunions. It's as though we all were following or leading each other up the coast. As an example, we met John, Alice and Lexie---their large, overly friendly black lab, in Titusville as they were in the process of returning home onboard their 32-foot Cape Dory, "Golden Pearl" to Portsmouth, NH. We visited and enjoyed each other's company for a couple of days, and then Golden Pearl slipped her lines and left several days before we'd do the same. A week or so later as we were tied to the St. Augustine city docks and who should appear but Golden Pearl. And that's the way it's been heading north. I'm sure this will be common place on our return journey to Florida in the Fall. Already we know several boats that will be going south from the Chesapeake about the same time we plan to.

We spent six days at St. Augustine, three days longer than expected. In the first place we needed to sit through a nasty, northerly low that smacked the area hard and had Countess and all the other boats in the Marina and out on the hook doing the 'Dolphin Island Shuffle'. Secondly, we had to wait for our mail which was coming priority as the government likes to calls it. After waiting for several previous 'priority' deliveries, a more exact classification should be non-priority along with the tag-line, "just a couple of hoof beats slower than the Pony Express."

When April 14th rolled around so did better weather. At 0648 we left the slip, turned Countess' bow to the north and immediately went into a holding pattern out on the river waiting for the 7 o'clock opening of the Bridge of Lions' Bridge. Shortly, after the bridge lifted, we set our course towards the St. Augustine Inlet followed by several sailboats, and clearing red buoy #60 at the mouth of the St. Augustine Inlet, we swung our heading north up the Tolomato River towards Fernandina Beach some 59 statute miles north. The day was clear and pleasant with warm 12 to 15 mph northwest winds brushing across our quarter bow. Gradually, much like some of the rivers to our south, the Tolomato eventually whittled itself down into a deliberate Intracoastal cut about half way up to Jacksonville Beach. Noticeably, the abundant palms gradually surrendered their claim to the country side as more and more pine and oak trees took over. The waterway's banks melted into a broad marshscapes presenting us with sweeping panoramics of tall grasses laced with narrow meandering channels ideal for interswamp gator travel.

This day's passage included two fairly wide river crossings: the St. Johns, notorious for its swift currents and tidal movements as it winds its way through Jacksonville heading to the Atlantic. And about ten miles further north, the Nassau River which passes silently by the southern tip of Amelia Island before spreading out into its own very shallow sound and then losing itself to the ocean. Today gave us cause to tighten our buns and grit our teeth as we once again left Countess' keel signature on a bend on Sawpit Creek and darn near parked her on a shoal on the north side of the Nassau River, all within a distance of three miles or so. Both instances were a result of closely following the chart's magenta line---the cruiser's 'yellow brick road' for the ICW. On the Sawpit's last bend, just before it straightens out for a clear shot into the Nassau River, the 'line' indicated a mid-channel course favoring port. Suddenly, with two gut-wrenching jerk-like surges indicating a river's depth was not in keeping with our boat manufacturer's draft specifications, I jammed the throttle forward kicking in our diesel's turbo just in time to hurdle us towards the bank and buy us a few extra feet of depth in the actual channel. Believe me, when instances like this occur we go right to the charts and correct 'em with proper headings and notations as reminders for the next time through. Once past this minor crisis, we noticed a sailboat further up the cut leaning at a 45-degree angle on its starboard side in front of the Nassau River ...obviously hard aground. Then our radio confirmed our suspicions when the vessel's occupants called Towboats US for assistance. Upon approaching the sailboat we immediately recognized it as John and Alice's "Golden Pearl". It didn't take much leeway from the center of the cut to put her keel deep in the mud. We offered to try a pull-off, but they declined because a tow boat was already on its way. Wishing them the best we ventured out into the Nassau River once more following the magenta line. We were aware from earlier chart study that on the other side of the river there was considerable shoaling off the point of land where the Amelia River joins with the Nassau. Having been fore-warned of this particular section brought up the question whether it would be more prudent to keep the approaching red marker #46 to port rather than to starboard as the 'line' indicated we should do. Well, common sense would have saved us about five minutes of extreme high anxiety. Instead, we followed the 'line' and quickly saw our depth gauge come up to 3.2-feet as we passed the marker to starboard. I immediately pulled the throttle back, and putting her in neutral I turned to Chance and muttered something to the effect that we were in deep cacamole. With faces paled, stomachs knotted and palms clammy, we agonized waiting an impending grounding while our eyes stayed riveted to the depth gauge Meanwhile Countess, oblivious to the peril at hand, just ghosted quietly over about 20 yards of shoal and, by the grace of Neptune, drifted into deeper water. Don't ask me why we didn't hit 'n stick, but we didn't. Lining up the next two green markers to starboard and pushing the gear lever forward, we did a four-knot creep towards a point where we figured the deepest part of the channel ran. Depths gradually climbed from five to seven then a respectable nine finally leveling out at15 feet by the time we swung parallel to the shoreline and started up the Amelia River. During this whole ordeal it dawned on us that we had been literally standing on our tip toes. Cruising does have its moments! After this episode, I think we marked every chart and made bold notations on all the pages of every reference book we had that covered this section of the ICW. A couple of months later we heard the Corps of Engineers dredged that portion and added a couple more channel markers to facilitate a safer passage across the Nassau.

Our friends, the ones stranded back in the cut, eventually got off with the assistance of two tow boats one of which guided them across the Nassau River, around the outside of red marker #46 in blatant disregard to the magenta line and safety into the depths of the Amelia River. Their towing bill was $386. Good thing they were covered. A nominal $85 per year to Boats US will buy the maximum rate of $800 worth of towing coverage per incident. I'm sure there are some boaters who shun this coverage, but groundings are common, and eventually those who cruise the ICW will unceremoniously kiss the bottom or worse yet, find their very own parking spot and need for a tow.

Fernandina Beach is a clean, charming little town near the north end of Amelia Island. Definitely geared for the tourist trade, one end of the town's main drag begins just about in front of the marina and runs up both sides for about six blocks. Off to the marina's right is the town's restored train depot currently being used as the chamber of commerce building. At one time Fernandina was the main terminus for Florida's first cross-state railway system. The town comes complete with old, uneven brick streets and tastefully refurbished two-storied buildings with false fronts which add to its nineteenth century ambiance. Visiting the wide variety of shops had a definite effect on the pace of our walking tour. up Centre Street. There are lots of cafes, pubs and restaurants to pick from all within walking distance from the marina, not to mention that the marina has its own impressive restaurant. No one leaves Fernandina hungry. Where to dine for our one-night's stay became the evening's challenge. We finally settled on a small hole-in-the-wall cafe a half block off the main street which proved to be one of the best spots we've eaten at on the eastern ICW so far.

From what I could gather after briefly reading a little of the area's history was that during Fernandina's beginnings which included a period of weak Spanish rule, a minor, yet failed revolution silently perpetrated by the U.S. and the occupation by a whole slug of various undesirables such as pirates, rogues, smugglers, you name it---even escaped slaves hid out here, the area became a barbery coast until Spain ceded Florida to the U.S. in 1821. After the Civil War, blockades and union troop occupation nearly killed off the town, Fernandina recovered with an influx of wealthy northerners (sound familiar?) only to gradually slip into semi-obscurity when the railroad penetrated the southern environs of Florida and sapped away all those rich visitors. Nowdays, we'd consider that unquestionably a blessing in disguise! Anyway, it wasn't until the 1930's with the onslaught of commercial shrimping and a couple of pulp mills that Fernandina was able to pull herself back together again. And now, with southern Florida bursting at the seams with people, especially during the winter months, tourists and cruisers alike have rediscovered the charms of fair Fernandina. We already have it in the log to revisit this town. Besides, there's plenty bike exploring yet to be done on Amelia Island.

With just 33 miles to pass under our keel on the passage to Jekyll Island, we allowed ourselves the luxury of leaving Fernandina Harbor Marina at the civilized time of 0835 the next day. There's probably three miles of the Amelia River left to travel before entering the Cumberland Sound and crossing St. Mary's Entrance. Travel up the sound was straight forward without much current to buck or sneaky shoals to dodge. We were hoping to sight a submarine either in the sound's channel or at the Kings Bay sub base before we turned up the Cumberland River. Taking wide turns when rounding river bends is an important cruise tip to follow when traveling the serpentine rivers that make-up much of the waterway through Georgia. At the north end of Cumberland Island just off to our starboard as we plowed against a fairly minor tide, the river dramatically opened up to the expansive St. Andrew Sound. The day was perfect for cruising with lots of sun, warm temps and a southwest 10-plus mph wind that did nothing more than gently urge us on. Fortunately the wind was only wrinkling the waters as we ventured out into the Atlantic Ocean inorder to pass red buoy #32 rocking to the incoming Atlantic swells between Pelican Spit off Cumberland Island's northeastern tip and the North Breakers immediately to the northeast. Countess could now chalk-up another ocean to her cruising credit. After rounding the buoy we were on course to enter Jekyll Sound and, as we passed by the island's southerly point, we could make out people randomingly scattered along the Island's broad beachfront like ants on a white picnic lunch plate. After rounding the point, we entered Jekyll Creek which led us through the curve of a big bend and pointed us right at the Jekyll Island Harbor Marina located smack dab in front of the only bridge connecting the island to the mainland.

From the time we tied Countess to her slip and trudged up through numerous moss-draped oaks firmly anchored to the marina's yard looking for the office to check in, we had a curious feeling there was something magical about this island, and our visit would be special. In the late 1800s, Jekyll Island was bought by a collection of millionaires who founded the renown Jekyll Island Club. Membership included such notable families as the Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Armours, Goodyears, Cranes, Morgans, Pulitzers and Astors. So exclusive was the club that memberships were passed on by inheritance. Members built their vacation cottages (mansions are more like it) on the club's grounds which are only about a mile north of the marina. Interestingly, none of these huge homes had kitchens, all meals and socializing really took place at the huge clubhouse. And the clubhouse itself is a most imposing example of Victorian architecture on the grounds easily dwarfing the surrounding members' residences. The state of Georgia eventually purchased the island just after the war and set aside the Club's complex and grounds as a state park.

After registering at the marina, we unloaded our bikes and took off for the Club. To get there we rode down a beautiful little 2-mile trail thickly padded with pine needles and closely guarded by dense pine trees bringing useventually to a road that circles the boundary of the entire club grounds. Along the trail we peddled by a small boggy pond wherein two sizable alligators contentedly napped on its cool muddy banks, both within striking distance of the trail. Fortunately gators don't chase cars or bikes. At least that's what I've always thought. But imagine the surprise if one of those gators decided to stake out the path in hopes a tasty tourist snack would just happen to stroll by. I have no doubt this could happen. The trail ended across the road from one of several entrances to the club grounds.

The whole estate, that is, park, is truly magnificent. Enchanting really sums it up. Stately, old oak trees heavily shrouded in Spanish moss dominate the grounds with smatterings of pines and various budding bushes randomly growing throughout. There's one venerable, old oak reported to be over 350 years old, and judging from its appearance and numerous low, out-stretched branches of considerable diameter each requiring hefty man-made supports, I'd say it could even be older. The tree looked ancient and very, very tired.

Many of the members' homes were quite gorgeous, and most have been expertly restored to their original condition. However, for some odd reason or other, there were a few that have been overlooked and showed many years of neglect. But I believe the state will eventually renovate them also. I still can't imagine the size of their primary residences if these owners called what they built here, cottages. Architecturally, these 'cottages' ranged from an unmistakable Cape Cod style to what I'd tag as contemporary colonial ala upstate New York or New Jersey. One stand-alone mansion with its Spanish-style design and faded red Mexican-tiled roof could have been plucked off one of those palm-lined avenues in the more exclusive parts of old Los Angeles. The park's grounds are like one gigantic, well manicured lawn bisected with a couple of roads and a path for visitors to enjoy a bike ride, a shaded walk or early morning jog.

We took advantage of the surprisingly little traffic and the well-maintained bike paths throughout the island to get out and explore. On one trip around the island's parameter we rode past the Island's earliest family's grave plot and the still-standing walls of their plantation house which they had lived in for over 100 years since the late 1700s. There were also the remnants of the family-operated brewery close by. But most of the family's time was probably consumed by taking care of their 11,000 acres of Sea Island cotton, their real claim to fame and fortune. Arriving at the north end of the island, we rode onto Driftwood Beach and headed southwards along a broad stretch of oceanside beach for several miles. These northerly reaches of smooth, fine-sanded beach were littered with forest remnants from some other island or chunk of mainland. Violently deposited over years of Atlantic storms, these knarled and contorted branches and whole tree parts have been deeply, if not permanently driven into the sand and now jutt menacingly out at every angle like some Nazi defense scene on the beaches at Normandy. Only time, weather and rotting will have them disappear. We exuberantly peddled our bikes in, out, around and through the twisted maze of snags. Seldom does the opportunity arise when we can act like a couple of kids, but this was one, memorable occasion that couldn't be passed up. We ended our 'adolescent frolic' about five miles further down the beach when our 'deformed' slalom courses gradually disappeared, and the tide began to nibble away critical partials of passable beach thereby ending to our rare ride. Back on the asphalt path, we crossed the island's mid-section arriving at the marina in much need of a rest and showers.

The next couple of days had us still tied to the dock waiting out a large low-pressure system that threatened us with a tornado, but delivered instead thunderstorms with an unlimited supply of lighting, torrential rains and hard-hitting southwest to westerly winds. Violent storms like this had us concerned about anchoring up one of the creeks when we headed north because the low-lying, open Georgian marshes offer little protection from the winds, and the idea of swinging big-time on the hook in the middle nowhere did not engender a warm, fuzzy feeling. While waiting out the front's passing, we had the pleasure of meeting Martin and Betsy Bash from Harvard, Massachusetts on board their 40-foot Willard trawler, "Serenitiy III", and Chip and Barbara Wiser from Newburyport, Mass on board "Freestyle" a renovated 38-foot Jarvis-Newman downeast lobster-style trawler. We all decided to do breakfast at the Jekyll Island Clubhouse the next morning just like the millionaires use to do....well, sort of. The buffet was your basic fare and as good as to be expected of that style of meal. But, where were the exotic offerings you might imagine the original club members were served up? If any of us had thoughts of delectable pheasant under glass, juicy gobs of caviar piled high on crispy petite toasties and chilled vintage champagne to bubbly wash the whole thing down...well, this morning's spread would have been a grand let-down. Coincidentally, Betsy and Barbara are members of Women On Board, the same women's cruising organization Chance signed-on with back in Texas. We had a pleasant visit with our new-found cruising friends, and hope to link-up with them when we get in the Boston area later this summer. In the interim, Chance stays in touch with Betsy and Barbara through E-mail as we work our way north.

The trip from Jekyll Island to Kilkenny Creek was a healthy 73 statute mile one gobbling up about 10 hours of an ideal cruising day. Today we crossed five sounds, two of which were substantial in size: St. Catherine's and Sapelo. The others: St. Simons just north of Jekyll Island, Altamaha, twenty miles further north and finally Doboy about five miles more, up the Little Mud River. While all these bodies of water open to the Atlantic, all but Doboy Sound have long reaches which could present very uncomfortable sea states when the tides, currents and winds decided to oppose each other. We were fortunate today, all our crossings were without incident. We also began to notice that more and more range markers were appearing on the charts and for darn good reason. Whether approaching or leaving them astern, these markers were our only guidelines through some narrow channel stretches where it wouldn't take much deviation to go hard a ground. In fact, I was finding the chart constantly in my lap, and my index finger tracing our path through Georgia and trying to stay on top of when we were about to enter one of these sections. Believe me, this got to be quite wearing after five or six hours. I also made it a habit every night before running the next day to highlight all the range markers and skinny river bends and cuts so we'd be prepared when they came up. We also figured that whenever we were running straight, be it on a river or through a narrow cut and the channel's location or depth was in question, we'd could do no worse than to split everything dead-on down the middle...at least that way we'd have a fifty-fifty chance not screwing up. Seems to have kept us out of trouble so far...touch teak!

So there we were, meandering our way up through vast acreages of abundantly tall grass-covered marshlands with loads of birds to identify and check off in our two bird books. Odd to be going north one minute, then west the next, or south, then east. And even stranger to look out over these marshy plains and spot only a sailboat's mast or a portion of a power boat's flybridge gliding effortlessly through an expanse of tall grass like like some far-off Kansas wheat field, then momentarily disappearing behind an occasional outgrowth of thickly clumped swamp brush without any indication that they were ever on the water. We finally arrived at the entrance to Kilkenny Creek, hung a left and snaked six miles up river finally dropping a hook up on the side of a bend just above the Kilkenny Marina . We had decided against anchoring at Big Tom Creek where the entrance was on the shallow side causing concern that we'd lose next day's early start to Savannah to the morning low tide. Besides, where we were on the Kilkenny there were lots of tall trees to protect us from any uninvited evening blow. While swinging over the top of our Bruce anchor between high and low tides changes, the impeller on our knot meter registered 2.04 miles and the current rose from a quarter to a full knot in speed. II was at this anchorage that we were introduced in a big way to what bugs are all about in the south; especially the 'no-seeums' who delight in burrowing into your hair or holding track meets up and down your legs the very moment you serve yourself up from the protection of a screened cabin. Fact: all gnats have teeth, and possess insatiable appetites for sweet-meated boaters. Another fact: every mosquito has an attitude to match its appetite. We literally washed ourselves with heavy doses of Cutters, greased our skins with Avon Skin-So-Soft and sprayed the screens with killer Raid. Like packs of voracious wolves, these Georgia insects waited outside our cabin to pounce. We even burned a large, round sickly yellow citronella candle which seemed to help keep the menace from hanging-out on all the screens we fortunately had made for us back in San Francisco and Naples. The only relief was to be had once underway with a slight breeze on the nose. And that's what we looked forward to the following day when the orange-red sun began inching its way above the misty grey-white Georgian horizon. I've often wondered, and I'm sure someone will finally clue me in, why is it that the sun appears to be so enormous during some, but not all, of its rises and sets? Maybe it's an atmospheric thing. We never see such intensity or size in the Northwest. No matter, it's dramatic, if not magical to witness, and this morning's was no exception---absolutely captivating despite all the pesky insects that zeroed in on us as the anchor was pulled out of Kilkenny's oozy, thick mud bottom. The little bit of air flow we created as we headed out the creek to rejoin the 'ditch' was enough to keep the critters off us and the heat of the day down.

We made good to a 32.5 mile day north to Savannah and Palmer Johnson's marina. The scenery and topography today was a repeat of yesterdays: large marsh areas, lots of river bends and numerous secondary creeks offering secluded anchorage provided you could get in and out of them. The Georgia intracoastal is basically made-up of linked rivers and the landscape is fairly consistent throughout. The Palmer Johnson's is located several miles to the southeast of old town Savannah in a relatively run-down part of town.

Actually it's situated on the Wilmington River at an area called Thunderbolt. Tying up in Savannah would have been preferable, but its waterfront doesn't have much in the way of boating facilities. Palmer Johnson, known for building very, very large and expensive luxury yachts at their main yard in the Great Lakes, also run this bigger-than-average Savannah extension which performs maintenance on all sizable yachts and sailboats in the 100-foot plus category. The marina itself rounds out the operation. However, there are other marinas in the area to tie-up to which, if we have to stay-over in Savannah again, we'll more than likely try another place. We weren't impressed with the big P-J facility---a slightly below-average operation we thought. The marina did have a deal with one of the local cab companies, and the ride into old town only set us back seven bucks for the both of us.

Savannah's waterfront and surrounding environs are packed with history and some of the best examples of post revolutionary/antebellum architecture I have ever seen. Lots of small parks each with its own statue or two break-up the street-upon-street of densely packed buildings. Plenty of old oaks line all the streets, and overhang enough to create a lacy, green canopy for a majority of the avenues. It also appears all the churches predate the Civil War. We bought tickets for one of the historic district's tour trolleys where, at your choosing, you can get on and off it throughout the district. The drivers keep you well-informed on the area's history, the background on the buildings and houses and little tidbits on the local citizenry of the times. This type of tour has two drawbacks: your field of vision is severly restricted by the trolley's overhanging roof, and you generally pass too quickly by the spots of interest negating any possibility to imagine what things were like during that time period. This became a frustrating point because the majority of the buildings are extremely beautiful and architecturally intriguing. A self-conducted walking tour would have probably been better, but then you'd run a good chance of falling on your face before completing it. There's just too much 'stuff' to cover in a day. The river front, where so much commerce took place throughout the past century, is still being renovated, but the original flood walls and much of the building fronts remain as they did during the Civil War times. Even long sections of stone block streets have been left alone. In the days of pre-shock absorbers it's difficult to imagine anyone traveling the streets not to eventually end up with a serious kidney condition or at the very least, a tremendously sore butt! As usual, there are the basic tourist shops, but there's also a large number of other unique and interesting retail shops worth browsing through.

The nation's best seller, "Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil", a local murder mystery based on actual happenings in Savannah, seems to have totally consumed the city. It was most definitely the 'talk-of-the-town' among locals and tourists alike. There were even special tours being conducted through the house, Johnny (Moon River?) Mercer's house, where the actual murder took place. And the whole city was in a furor over the early summer filming of the novel, and the arrival of Clint Eastwood and company in a couple of weeks. Fortunately we left before the whole place went totally bonkers.

We said goodbye to Palmer Johnson's docks the following morning and crossed into South Carolina, or what locals affectionately refer to as "low country". About five miles later, with the wind and current kicking up, our passage became a little arduous as we tried to hold course along the short, but narrow Elba Island Cut with two to four foot depths on either side. We crabbed our way through, and breathed much easier once we entered the Savannah River. Hilton Head Island was a short trip, only 29 statute miles north of Savannah, as we churned the Wilmington, Savannah, Wright and New Rivers plus mixed-up the muddy waters of Fields Cut, Ramshorn and Skull Creeks. We passed along the west side of Daufuskie Island and into the lengthy reaches of Calibogue Sound. Daufuskie Island (rumored to become the next Hilton Head) intrigued us enough that we plan on exploring it by bike this fall before the onslaught of developers ruin---oh, pardon me, I meant to say, change it forever.

We arrived at Skull Creek Marina on the north end of Hilton Head at the same time that Jerry and Sally Farley brought their Passport 47 'Tiamo' in after completing their outside passage from St. Augustine. As they tied-up to an end dock, we stood-off pulling a couple of wide circles until the marina assigned us a location just two slips away from our friends. It was like a family reunion as we picked up conversations as though we were never separated and swapped cruising tales over a couple of beers. The Farleys have to go on the outside of the Intracoastal due to the height of their mast, and their passages generally take 24 to 30 some hours before they can enter a decent inlet and tuck into port. They were pretty well beat from the St. Augustine trek, so after the story about Fred the pigeon who hitched a ride for the better part of the journey before taking wing when they got close to land, the Farleys fell dead on their lips for a much-deserved nap.

During our stay we rented a car for couple days and toured Hilton Head. It's a large, much developed resort island literally laced with emmaculate golf courses and dotted with fine tennis courts. The island is laid out in, I believe, six sections called, appropriately enough, plantations like 'sea pines plantation'...you get the idea, and where the communities therein have guard gates. There numerous cluster malls of various sizes scattered throughout the island; some boasting major retail chains like Sam's Club, WalMart and K-Mart. And if that's not enough shopping, there are two huge factory outlet malls a couple of miles off the island that, after visiting them, we concluded they were dumping grounds for doggy merchandise which didn't move in the real world. I've always been dubious about the special discount pricing these kind of places tout. We found prices at the Eddie Bauer outlet didn't differ from those we had seen at their main store in Seattle. But I'd like to think there probably are some good buys in some of the stores. At least the foreigners seemed to think so, both complexes were crawling with predominately Japanese and German tourists.

Hilton Head Island is beautifully laid out and its development and architectural codes strictly enforced. With set-back requirements the way they are all structures are neatly tucked far enough back into the island's mature forests as not to be intrusive. All structures are no taller than two stories. And all trees with a five-inch base diameter or larger cannot be cut. The overall greenbelt effect definitely dilutes the impact of the sizable development which has taken place. It's by far it's the biggest 'country club setting' you'll ever visit! After spending a couple of days here I started getting the feeling that this place was just a little too perfect or 'squeaky neat' to the point of being darn near over-controlled. Wonder if the residents have to tune into Big Brother every day? But with the covenants, restrictions and building codes the way they are, there's no question this island would be an absolute disaster without them. As the growth continues, the island can only handle so much more. I fear they will begin to suffer some of the entrapments of a city. It's already obvious with the island traffic. The roads---some of them multi-laned and built like highways, are beginning to have difficulty taking care of the enormous amounts of commercial, residential and visitor traffic.

Two days at Hilton Head was long enough for us. Our next destination was Beaufort, South Carolina as opposed to Beaufort, North Carolina. The pronunciation of these two towns has been an on-going perplexity for anybody who has tried to correctly say which town goes with which state. In South Carolina it's Bew-fort (draw out the U sound of EW), and in North Carolina: Bow-fort (emphasis on the O). Now, do you think any of us can keep that straight? Hardly, not without really thinking hard about it. If you believe you've screwed up just add a simple designation of state, then everyone will forgive you because they'll know exactly which Beaufort you're talking about.

The Beaufort Municipal Marina was only 18.7 statue miles from Skull Creek Marina. And the only section of the trip that could cause problems would be the sizable waters of Port Royal Sound which can serve up an intimidating, if not a down-right nasty sea state because of its wide-open easterly exposure to the Atlantic. But not today. We had a comfortable, short cruise under clear skies with a light sea breeze, warm temps and glass-like conditions arriving in Beaufort at 1115. On the way up the Beaufort River we passed by Parris Island, the Marine Corps recruit training base where more Marines go through boot camp than at any other Marine Corps base. The river's current coupled with a fairly good tide made for very careful docking at the municipal marina. We had to wait 'til slack tide the next morning to horse Countess around so we'd have an easier go at exiting from where they had us tied-up: the inside corner of a long dock with a rather large sailboat less than fifteen feet off our bow. The Ladies Island Highway Bridge (30 foot vertical clearance) was down for an indefinite period causing a virtual fleet of sailboats to drop anchor in the river's bend just south of the marina to wait out the fix. Earlier on the trip up Port Royal Sound we passed one of Pacific Seacraft's new motorsailers. I struck up a brief radio conversation with its owner who told me he was returning to his home and moorage on Ladies Island. Just so happens all that's on the other side of that downed bridge, and when he arrived (we had been at the marina for at least an hour and a half before him) all he could do was anchor and wait it out. So close, yet so far away! The bridge became operational the following day at 1520mafter being down for almost 20 hours. Tough break, but something that's not uncommon on the ICW---it's happened twice to us.

I'm glad we decided to take in Beaufort. It's an attractive, peaceful little town with lots of fine examples of Civil War era homes and mansions and a couple of very old and interesting graveyards containing lots of early to mid-1800 head stones. The oldest I found dated back to 1724! We celebrated Chance's 49th at the Beaufort Inn with one of the most sumptuous meals we can ever recall having. Afterwards we enjoyed a leisurely stroll through several blocks of old Beaufort containing some of the old town's finest mansions. Beaufort is not overly commercial and pretty much epitomizes what you'd like to expect from a small, clean and congenial southern town. This was a very pleasant stopover and on list to revisit this fall.

Once you get into the traveling rhythm it becomes hard to remain at any one port more than a couple of days. Any longer and you can almost feel the moss growing on your keel. I also think that while you're moored, watching boats leave or just cruise by, a little anxiety starts to build and that 'gitty-up-and-go' urge begins to bubble in the pit of the stomach. There's only one way to get rid of the gnaw: weigh anchor or slip the lines and head out.

We left Beaufort for Charleston at 0632 under sunny skies with 15-20 knot easterlies and moderately choppy seas. Along the 68 mile journey we had our share of tricky spots over thin water in a number of creeks and rivers. Just when you think you have a channel nailed the bottom comes up from 16 to 4 feet to grab your attention. We had two close calls, but no bumps. Along the way we passed through Fenwick Cut and along the South Edisto River that defines Fenwick Island's eastern edge. The reason I bring this to your attention is that Chance's maiden name is Fenwick, although we both thought it would be a long-shot should a relative appear on the shore waving a white towel and screaming, "cousin Chance, cousin Chance, come on down." No matter, we at least made a short, but little-big deal out of this part of the passage taking landmark pictures and cogitating over theisland's origins. Judging by the chart, marshes make up more than three-quarters of Fenwick Island which also holds true for many of the other surrounding islands we passed by. Today's journey proved to be one of the more wearing ones with lots of range markers to line-up and channels to stay in. We literally snaked our way up to Charleston with very few straight sections to allow us a pause from the strain of piloting. The last test before entering the Ashley River which borders the south side of Charleston's peninsula, was the short and very confined Elliott Cut on Wappoo Creek. This brief segment challenged our headway and steerage as we bucked a four-plus knot current trying to burst its way through this narrow channel and into the Stono River which we had just crossed. We successfully fought the current as it tried its best to send us careening off the creek's banks or pounding us into one of the numerous residential cement and rock bulkheads lining the cut. About three miles further, after passing through one bascule bridge and under a 65-foot fixed bridge, we cleared the creek and popped into the slower currents of the Ashley River. Within minutes after rounding a mid-river channel marker we were passing by 'Tiamo' (our good friends, the Farleys) anchored among several other sailboats on the opposite side from the city docks. We had reservations at the Ashley Marina, and proceeded to gingerly maneuver Countess inside their dock complex keeping close attention to how the river's current was working her. Once tied up, we mustered some extra dock hands to help turn her around bow-out. Exiting is always a prime consideration when tying up at any dock. We gave Countess a much needed bath and after registering at the marina's office, we raised the Farleys on the radio. Thirty minutes later they edged their dinghy next to our transom platform, tied up and stepped onto the long dock and into the usual barrage of none-stop cruiser talk. As long as you cruise, you never say goodbye to the friends you meet along the way. 'Crossing wakes' with cruising acquaintances and familiar vessels is inevitable; especially on the Intracoastal.

While in Charleston (we stayed a week) I ran daily through the well-worn streets of the town's old section. I think my neck did most of the exercising as I was constantly turning it from side to side taking in all the beautiful examples of southern antebellum architecture. Whether it was during my morning 'just-do-it' tours or on one of our (Jerry, Sally, Chance and myself) near-daily bike rides around old town, I was absolutely absorbed in the historic essence of this truly grand and fascinating city. I became intrigued with the way a majority of the old residences were positioned on the city blocks. The house fronts are perpendicular to the streets they line. To get to the front door you pass through a door or portal built as an extended section off the house's wall which faces the street. Through the side entrance and you're on main, first floor porch leading to the front door. I can't understand why these houses were situated as they are because the open view onto the street is replaced by one that looks directly at the back of the neighbor's house some 50 to 75 feet away. Maybe the way the land was platted or the lots laid out had something to do with this oddity. Later, while we were moored at Norfolk, I was informed, after bringing the question up while enjoying after-dinner drinks with Barry and Kathy Carbaugh aboard "Two Drifters", that the reason the houses were positioned this way was for ventilation. The street sides of the houses all faced towards the water and prevailing breezes. I guess the air currents are more effective running the length rather than the width of the house .

Almost all the buildings in the city's original commercial core basically appear as they did over 100 years ago thanks to their superb renovations and the city's unrelenting passion for its historical preservation. Even though old town is loaded with interesting shops and excellent restaurants, its commercialism is neither garish or overwhelming. I find it refreshing to visit places that aren't inundated with T-shirt and trite knick-knack shops. And, although shopping has never been at the top of my dance card, I did enjoy browsing through quite a few of Charleston's unique shops. Across from the customs house next to where the original port was located is the tremendously popular market place comprised of, as I recall, six original open-walled buildings. This was undoubtedly the heart of a tremendous amount of commercial trading during the 18 and 19th centuries. And even today this row of buildings are crammed with vendor stalls inside---up and down both sides and along the middle. The best you can do is shuffle along with the hordes of other shoppers as they elbow their way past tables and tables displaying everything from handmade trinkets, artwork and candies to hand-woven seagrass baskets, jams and jellies, sunglasses (in every shape imaginable) and, yes...T-shirts---at least the shirts had more tasteful art and one-liners printed on them than I've seen at other tourist towns). There was an incredible amount of merchandise here, I only scratched the surface. This has to be one of the biggest artisan's market (it's called a farmer's market, yet fresh produce was absent) I've ever visited. There's also no lack of antique stores in Charleston.. The several shops we visited carried a wide range of elegant examples of life's essentials from a bygone aristocratic society.

On one of my morning jogs through old town Charleston I happened by one of the larger, obviously older churches in town. Inside its chipped and weathered brick walls had to be one of the more fascinating cemeteries I have ever visited. Many of the headstones were dated late-1700's and several dozen were elaborately carved. What made this particular graveyard so unusual was that it had been allowed to be overgrown with ivy, dense low-lying bushes and tall-standing grass. The hanging and creeping plant life literally enveloped the entire yard shrouding the resident markers and leaving little room for people to walk the numerous narrow paths crisscrossing the yard. So thick and lush was the overgrowth that it seemed like much of the city sounds created only steps away from this jungled 'neighborhood' was muffled to a certain extent, allowing these hallowed grounds a greater degree of peace. All but a few headstones which had been totally lost to nature were kept regularly trimmed back enough to read the inscriptions. As inviting and lovely as graveyard was during daylight hours, I doubt I'd choose to take a dark night's stroll through it.

While we were in the area, we took a tour of the World War II aircraft carrier, Yorktown which is permanently moored across the river from Charleston and only a short watertaxi ride away. It must take a tremendous amount of state taxpayer's money maintain a vessel of this size. An aircraft carrier is one huge ship! The original Yorktown was lost while fighting the Japanese fleet at the Battle of Midway in 1942. Its replacement was commissioned in the spring of 1942. This ship served the Navy significantly in their Pacific offensive which began in 1943. Known as the "Fighting Lady", the Yorktown earned 11 battle stars and the Presidential Unit Citation. The ship displaced 27,100 tons, carried a crew of 380 officers, 3,088 enlisted men, and an air group of 90 planes. The flight deck was modified in the 1950's by adding an angled deck for jets. She also served in Viet Nam before being decommissioned in 1970.

Having never walked the flight deck of one of these behemoths, I was amazed how short and narrow this sea-going airstrip was. I have the greatest admiration and respect for those pilots who had to land on it; especially in adverse conditions when the ship was pitching and rolling and the winds were howling across her decks. There were a lot of displays honoring battle casualties who served on board. And a special section was set aside to honor all the Medal of Honor recipients. It was a very impressive exhibit. Also moored in the same area as the Yorktown were the submarine, Clamagore, the destroyer Laffey and Coast Guard Cutter Ingham. We did a claustrophobic tour of the sub---talk about tight quarters, those who served on any WWII sub certainly earned their 'crazy pay'. During the war these vessels had a very high mortality rate, and part of the Clamagore has been set aside to commemorate those who didn't make it back.

Having spent an outstanding week in Charleston, it was getting time to ready Countess to travel north. Sally and Jerry were going to hang-out another day then go outside for an overnighter to Beaufort Inlet and the Taylor Creek anchorage next to Beaufort, NC. From there they talked of taking to the inside and entering Norfolk from the ICW. The previous owner of their boat had taken this route when he brought the boat down to Florida. As of this writing, I am not sure if they actually did this portion of the Intracoastal. I know there's enough skinny water between Beaufort and Norfolk keep him on the edge of his seat and cause great concern. His keel draft is six feet! For us there was no choice, it was the ditch all the way. Besides, we had to go to Wilmington, NC and have Baker Marine, a Grand Banks dealer, take care of a relatively short list of warranty claims we had accumulated since leaving Clearlake, Texas. So we once again we exchanged alohas with the Farleys, and wished them fair winds and a following sea on their trek north. We hoped that if things went smoothly at Baker Marine we'd catch up with them somewhere on the Chesapeake.

I'll miss Charleston. We'll definitely hold-over there for a couple of days this fall. But now it's time to move on. Early the next morning we pushed off the Ashely docks as the river's current, flooding at that time of the morning, made our exit along the inside of their long outer most dock a rather fast one. But that was short lived for when we rounded the dock's end, we came up against a good couple of knot's worth of in-coming tide. Slowly we labored past the impressive old waterfront portion of Charleston where its mansions proudly line the river. It wasn't long before we were crossing Charleston Bay on a course that would bring us fairly close to Fort Sumter before we had to turn northeast and search for a small, narrow cut separating Sullivan Island from the mainland (Mount Pleasant). This would put us back on the Intracoastal pointed towards Georgetown's Belle Isle Marina, about 64 statue miles away. The weather was favorable, and once we plied our way through the slop and chop of the bay and eased past the two shallow points marking the cut's entrance, we settled back on the bridge settees for a relatively simple, autopiloted trip.

The highlight of today would be our passage through the Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge. The refuge's vast saltwater marshes seemingly sprawl forever across the low-level eastern side of the Intracoastal. Without the winding rivers to contend with, we were left to spend our time spotting and identifying some of the abundant wildlife (mostly shorebirds) that thrive in these environs.

We entered Winyah Bay---I don't know shy they call this a bay, more than anything it's a wide, slow-moving river, and headed for the marina on the bend just south of town. Our marina book said Belle Isle had an entrance depth of eight feet, but Countess knew better as she squished through a muddy three and a half foot bar before the channel grudgingly gave us an extra foot then two so we could get to our fixed slip. Later that day, with the tide out, our keel slowly nested itself into several inches deep into the marina basin's bottom. Later, as the water level began to rise, Countess gently lifted out of the ooze for the evening. Our slip was next to the fuel dock, and a huge Phillips 66 sign began swinging in the afternoon's breeze coming up the "bay" producing a high-pitched screeching noise, the kind that can make your teeth hurt everytime it hits a certain level. A couple of healthy shots of WD-40 on its rusty hangers made for an enjoyable sunset and quiet evening on board. Perhaps the only thing interesting about this marina was the fact that it sits on part of the original Belle Isle Plantation which was once owned by Francis Marion's (the Swamp Fox of Revolutionary War fame) brother. We never got into Georgetown; although I've read that it's an interesting place to visit. Maybe next time.

The following day we were out of Belle Isle heading for Bucksport Marina up on the Waccamaw River. We had to wait until 1000 when there was enough water to successfully escape Belle Isle. We had planned to make it a 60-mile day, but previously heard about the homemade sausage at Bucksport and worth a visit to get some so we decided, what the hay...we got no stinkin' schedule, why not break-up the trip. Yo doggies! Bucksport Marina, if you feel reckless and want to call it a marina, could be right out of the pages of a Tennessee Williams novel. The whole area was a throw back to parts passed through in Louisiana's bayou country. The whole area is inviting just as long as it's not a clip out of the movie "Deliverance". I understand the Gullah dialect is spoken in this neck of the woods. Wonder it they have those pig-calling contests too?

We had a quiet night tied to Bucksport's one long, but slowly rotting shorter dock in front of their little cafe, and woke to one of those intense fire-ball sunrises that make early Southern mornings the best part of the day. It didn't take long for us to ease back into the Waccamaw's lazy current and began twisting our way up through the river's remaining beauty. The Waccamaw River has to be one of the most beautiful sections on the eastern Intracoastal. It's only fifty to seventy...maybe a hundred yards wide in places, and its banks are jammed-packed with big, stately dogwoods, elms and oaks broad brushing a reflective painting of their different patterns and shades of green across the river's mirrored surface. We found added pleasure in its depths which ranged from 12.5 to over 30 feet. Comfortable crusin' at its best. Cutting through the river's tranquil waters, we meandered our way along it's course, passing numerous ox-bows where anchoring would have been peacefully rewarding. The Bucksport sausage was good, but next time we'll opt to drop the hook in one of those fine 'off-the-road' spots.

Gradually the serenity and loveliness of the river's surrounding terrain gave way to clusters of residences with docks reaching out towards the channel's center. With a 0713 departure and a tidal push, we made decent time, and elected to pass on our reservations at Coquina Harbor just north of Myrtle Beach. But our progress definitely became encumbered as the number of docks and no-wake zones increased. Still, with Southport at the mouth of North Carolina's Cape Fear River only 36 miles away, we just accepted the power-up/pull back regimen of today's eight hour passage. There were a couple of places on today's cruise where the Intracoastal comes within screaming distance of the Atlantic and the inlets: Shallote and Lockwoods Folly. These inlets T-bone into the waterway, and as small as these cross-channel intersections are, they can summon up some anxious moments with tidal strengths, cross-currents, and rips plus the ever-present shoals. Another section that demanded extra attention was a 2.2 mile section known as the 'Rock Pile'. Here the channel narrows to about 15 to 20 yards wide, and is lined with jagged rock outcroppings and flat stony shelves at various depths. Needless to say, it's an extremely dangerous place to attempt passing someone. Fortunately for us, a southbound fleet of shrimpers--- notorious for not giving way to anybody, passed by us about a mile after Chance piloted Countess through this section.

From Southport, at the mouth of the Cape Fear River, we called Baker Marine, the region's Grand Banks dealer up in Wilmington, to let them know we were close by, and could they accommodate us the following day when we came up the 21.6 mile stretch of the river to their marina. Last February we had talked with the Grand Banks people at the Miami Boat Show and they instructed us to take Countess to Baker Marine to have the warranty work done. So Baker Marine knew we were coming, but not when. However, they made room and told us how to spot their place---it was tucked back in the woods on the eastern side of the river about six miles south of Wilmington. Staying inside the river's wide and deep shipping channel provided a pleasant sight-seeing cruise up to the marina's little channeled entrance. There's roughly a five foot tidal range on the river, and we had a nice little push from the in-coming that day. Unbeknownst to us, the river's channel marker numbers recently changed upwards by the count of four. I initially found this perplexing, but after passing the first few markers and accepting that there wasn't much else to do but pay close attention to the passing topography and how it corresponded to our chart, we make it there in good form. We continued correcting our strip chart as we pushed up-river for the next two and a half hours looking out at basically uninhabited waterfront, but for just a few houses on the river's east side near Snow's Cut. We passed scatterings of small islands overgrown with bushes and tall grass. Outside the shipping channel, the river's depths are quite shallow and only good for small craft to negotiate. Once we passed under a set of overhead power lines, we turned to starboard and dog-legged through a short channel leading to a narrow cut in the river's bank and the marina's basin. There, at the second slip from the basin's end bulkhead, we tied-up Countess to what would end up being her dock for the next five weeks. This was about two weeks longer than we had anticipated, and the tenure short-circuited our plans of getting to Maine for the summer. On the plus side, the moorage was free, and we only had to pay a nominal electric surcharge of a dollar per day.

Once our grievance list was reviewed, it was just a matter of time and scheduling by the yard to take care of the relatively small number of items. The only big problem, and the one that kept us tied-up so long, was locating the leak source that when active brought a fair amount of water into the our stateroom closet. Eventually, through the process of elimination, we found its origins, and of all places, it began along a couple of pieces of cabin trim. I can't say enough about the professionalism of Baker Marine and the outstanding job they did to not only make things right on our boat, but how they treated us by extending every courtesy possible while we were there. A truly good, honest boat yard!

During our stay, we rented a car to get around the Wilmington area and visit Wrightsville and Carolina Beaches. However much of our time was spent working with the Baker Marine personnel on the repairs, doing varnish work and catching up on a back-log of reading. When traveling we find that most of our 'free' time is consumed by replenishing the boat's stores and studying charts and reference materials for the following day's passage. When we're at a port for a couple of days, and boat chores have been taken care of, we go exploring and visiting local museums and points of interest.

We stayed so long in Wilmington that we were starting to feel like locals. I was always exchanging quips with some of the Baker Marine guys about when I was going to apply for a driver's license or collect unemployment. Anyway, we became very familiar with Wilmington. Even the two alligators who cruised the yacht basin in the evenings started coming over to our boat to beg for gator goodies. Sometimes, if ignored, one of them---couldn't tell 'em apart, both were about 4-feet long and mean-looking, would come right up to Countess' hull and bump it with its snout to get our attention. A short three-mile drive from the marina was an outstanding park where every morning I'd go to run around its winding 4-mile asphalt trail that encircled a beautiful lake. The lake had lots of mature cypress. trees draped with Spanish moss and firmly rooted along its curvy banks. They even crowded every inch of land on the few small islands randomly positioned throughout the lake's length.

The best thing to happen to us while we were in our Wilmington holding pattern was when our good friends, Jude and Virgil Hennen from Friday Harbor, San Juan Island, Washington, came through the area on a cross-country tour in their motorhome. They visited for a couple of days comfortably 'leveled-out' just yards away from us in the marina's parking lot. Our little reunion would never had materialized if it weren't for E-mail. What an outstanding time, but way too short. The reunion had both Chance and I thinking of all our friends back in the Northwest and how much we missed them.

June 1 marked the beginning of hurricane season, and we were still too far south for comfort. Actually, the season hits the big leagues in August and September, winding down in November. But you never know when a tropical depression will boil up and hit the east coast. Judging by what we have witnessed on our passage up the Intracoastal, the leftovers from last year's series of hurricanes put in perspective just how intense these type of storms can be. It makes me incredibly nervous just to be think of even being close to one when it comes ashore. Today also marked the time to call it an end to the enjoyable, but all too short of time we had with the Hennens. This was their departure date and according to their schedule, Jude and Virgil needed to get on with it first taking a big swing up through the Outer Banks and Hatteras Island then turning inland to Virginia to see some close friends before really putting-the-peddle to that old 'Highway Hilton' of theirs and b-lining it straight through to the Northwest.

As the first two weeks of June had us still in Wilmington, our frustrations continued to mount as afternoon thunderstorms rolled through the area dumping enough rain to keep our elusive closet drip active and all our hanging clothes and boxed items getting stored forward in dryer surroundings. As much as we wanted to get on with our cruising, we could not leave without correcting the leak. And it was just as aggravating for the Baker Marine guys who suffered daily through this ordeal with us. Our attention finally centered on the teak trim that runs the parameter of the cabin roof where the molded bridge section is attached to the cabin. As it turned out water was being channeled aft along the inside of these teak trim pieces collecting in the cabin's rear roof overhang and eventually findilng its way down the cabin's aft bulkhead and into our closet. This was the key to our problem, and after removing the trim, resealing the joints and then reinstalling the trim with new caulking, the leak was eliminated!

It's now June 19, and we're all prepared to head out tomorrow for Hampstead, NC which would just about cut our 100-mile plus trip to Beaufort, NC in half. Our original aspirations of getting up to Maine for the summer were now replaced with a possible Boston and the Cape Cod visit as our northern most targets. Of course, we didn't want to short change all the great cruising in the Chesapeake so we decided to reevaluate our traveling once we reached Intercoastal Mile 0 at Northfolk, VA. For the moment however, all that mattered was putting Wilmington to the south of us and getting on with our adventure.

Hard to believe that after five weeks we were actually heading back down the Cape Fear River to the dividing channel leading to Snow's Cut. This mile-long channel would connect us once again with the Intracoastal just north of Carolina Beach and on coarse through Wrightsville Beach. On the way to Hampstead someone started messing around with the day's thermostat. As the morning wore on the temperature began to develop an attitude, and if it were not for our bimini and a pleasant onshore breeze, we most certainly would have been a couple of tuna-melts on the upper bridge. The scenery along this part of the coast was varied, accented by ridges of sand dunes on the Atlantic side and offset by low-laying marshlands with narrow channels seemingly leading nowhere and cutting the marshscape into an archipelago of grassy islets. Large, stately mansions partially hidden behind clusters of trees dominated the western embankments providing their owners with commanding views of the waterway.

Contrary to what the write-ups had pumped it up to be, the Harbor Village Marina at Hampstead was a big disappointment and clearly overrated. The dockmaster and help were incapable to measuring up two fundamentals of being successful in the marina biz: service and hospitality. Making matters even worse was the $1.20/foot charge they laid on us for basically nothing more than a floating dock and a hefty, sweat-serving walk away from the club house/office. We'll be sure to pass this place in the fall.

We were looking forward to our visit to Beaufort and their city docks, but first we needed 68 miles of Intracoastal to pass under our keel. Gladly leaving the marina at 0630 the following day (the first day of summer), we edged towards the river's center and began motoring through a fairly heavy haze with occasional dense patches of fog. The river was quite beautiful at this time of day with water as smooth and flat as a polished piece of marble tabletop. Occasionally the peaceful surface was broken by a surfacing fish or rippled with tiny spreading vee-wakes from by a family of ducks foraging on the opposite bank. The thick air amplified the sharp, screechy calls of ospreys soaring effortlessly overhead---breakfast-hunting no doubt for their young who waited impatiently in their wicker basket-like nests built on just about every ICW channel marker on this stretch of water. As we passed their nests, the chicks would stare intensely at us, bobbing and weaving their heads back and forth as if trying to bring us into focus or at least figure out what the heck we were. Ten minutes into the trip it suddenly occurred to us that the Surf City bridge, just about five miles further on, only opens on the hour. Hoping we'd make it in time for the 0700 opening, we bumped our rpm up to 2200 bringing the knot meter to 9-plus. It was looking tight so we radioed ahead and gave the bridgetender our location---'bout a mile away with an ETA of five minutes---and requested he hold the opening for us. Fortunately we were the only customers at this time and the bridgetender(ess), a sweet-sounding lady, held the opening 'til 0710. We arrived just as the bridge's middle section slowly cranked open, allowing us to cruised right-on through just like it was all meant to be. Impeccable timing.

In contrast to the earlier part of today's passage, as we neared Morehead City and this being a Saturday, the waterway was alive with zippity-doodahs ripping up the moderately open intracoastal into a state of rockin'-wet confusion. I pitied a couple in their small day sailer who were literally getting beat-up by all the converging wave action. At least we showed good form backing-off as we passed by the frazzled crew. It was a 'take-no-prisoners' kamikaze regatta as the mindless participants, operating everything from pocket-rockets (pwc's) to sizable runabouts and cruisers, racked up big points without colliding. We rounded the corner at Morehead City and headed down the shipping channel towards the Beaufort Inlet. The seastate had now been beat to near storm-like conditions with all the traffic. It was like a mini Victory-At-Sea, and not at all comfortable to get through. We rounded marker 18 by virtue of a left-handed arm signal extended straight out in earnest from the back of the bridge so a large boat who was transom-gating us would cut us some slack. He finally got the message and changed course allowing us to complete our turn. It was a slow, wide defensive turn to port with both of us constantly scanning the immediate area for potential rammings. That's how bad weekend cruising on the East Coast can get. After clearing an extended shoal off the eastern tip of Radio Island, we idled through a narrow channel which does a little side-winding before opening onto Taylor Creek and the inviting waterfront town of Beaufort. If the boating tag-match we just snuck through wasn't enough to remind us that this was the weekend, then the congestion of boats, anchored and tied to buoys in the creek, tied-up at the city docks or just running slowly by each other in every direction definitely was.

Many cruisers elect to anchor in Taylor Creek adjacent to Beaufort's docks, but we wanted to be right in town. In ways, this was not such a hot idea. Beaufort, in many respects, resembles the Northwest's Friday Harbor on San Juan Island or the East Coast's Martha's Vineyard on a summer's weekend. Lots of energy and people by land and by water, all with a "party 'til you drop" attitude congregate here. The harbor was teeming with activity while a quasi-pirate ship tacked back and forth firing a couple of small cannons at the waterfront obnoxiously adding to an already heightened state of mass confusion. I suppose this strafing of the waterfront was done in tribute to a time when, during the summer of 1747, pirates attacked Beaufort twice only to be repulsed and eventually driven out by a local militia. Evidently some of these scoundrels kin slipped through and boarded our docks that night. There was a raucous bunch of amateurs doing what only amateurs do best on Saturday nights, at football games and European soccer matches: test the limits of civility. At least they weren't raping the cattle and stealing the women. One 'party-go-heavy' group chugged whisky with beer chasers on board a neighboring 42-foot Grand Banks (of all things) across the slip from us denying our end of the marina any peace. Later, after everyone had either moved down the wharf to a bar blasting out Jimmy Buffet tunes or otherwise passed out, our dock area quietly became a 'no-war zone' allowing us to gather-up our over-do zees.

The town of Beaufort only recently struggled through a period of economic depression to become a vibriant community and very popular holiday port for boaters and land-cruisers to visit. There are a number of fine restaurants that line the town's waterfront boulevard and several of its off-streets. There's also a good selection of what appears to be very comfortable B & B's only a couple blocks aways from the city docks. During our two-day stay we visited Beaufort's excellent maritime museum which featured an outstanding collection of ship models, antique outboard motors and the largest shell collection I've ever had the pleasure of studying. North Carolina has a proud heritage of boat designers and builders over the past two hundred years, and some are displayed inside the museum's handsome building and across the street at their active boat building and restoration shop which is also open to the public. As I stood in front of the boat shop's large barn door opening a light breeze gently whiffed through from its opposite ocean-facing end. I clearly remember deeply drawing in the pleasant, woodsy scents of freshly cut pine and cedar shavings from the shop's interior.

Our time in Beaufort was well spent, and we wished we could have had a few more days just vegetating in the town's casual, friendly atmosphere. But we were also antsy to get on to Norfolk and across several substantial bodies of water. Our next destination was Belhaven, NC and an overnight at the River Forest Marina favored as a must-stopover for those who like good 'down-home' southern cookin'. After getting off the Beaufort docks at a late 0850, we needed to retrace our entry course by heading out towards Beaufort Inlet. After slipping past the south end of Radio Island, we turned Countess' bow north up the shipping channel and past Moorehead City's commercial docks. Shortly, we entered Core Creek which quickly leaves its identity to the Adams Creek canal and six miles worth of the creek itself. It wasn't long afterwards that we plugged into the Neuse River, and if ever there was a body of water that should be termed a sound, not a river, this was it. Not only is the river quite wide, its length is considerable too. Today's passage took in 23 of its 34 mile stretch, and as we rounded Maw Point to enter Bay River, a fair-sized hunk of water in itself and one of two major auxiliaries for the Neuse, we were greeted with blustery winds from a couple of outlying thunderstorms, one off to our starboard (northeast), the other dead ahead. The Neuse, and for that matter much of the broad, open waters which the intracoastal enters and transverses, are very shallow, and it doesn't take much wind to get them jumpin' with frothy joy at the hulls of passing boats. The Bay River served us with doses of two to three foot short choppy seas and, using the Earle scale of crummy conditions, made this part of the trip a definite 3-wiper affair. It was a long five miles to the Intracoastal cut that would dump us into Goose Creek and, in an hour and a half's time, bring us into the Pamlico River. Fortunately, once we made it to the cut there wasn't enough fetch for the surrounding storm winds to play havoc with the water and us, and all that would now be required was making sure we piloted a true course and avoid going aground. The storms moved south relieving us of further 'what-if' worries. Five miles later, after leaving the protected waters of Goose Creek and crossing the open, moderately choppy Pamlico River, we needed only ten miles of the Pungo River to pass our stern before turning off to port and passing through a set of opposing long, skinny breakwaters where inside we'd tie-up at River Forest Marina's long pier. The intracoastal meanwhile takes a ninety-degree to the east and disappears in a port turn about five miles further up the river.

Funky, little spot River Forest Marina, with its generous grounds amply endowed with old oak trees, and just a half mile or so from the main part of Belhaven. The dominating focal point of the marina is its dignified 1899 mansion built by a railroad/lumber baron, and which now operates as a boarding inn complete with restaurant and lounge. It's a beautiful structure with an unusual mix of Victorian and Italian styles of architecture. The surrounding neighborhood is made up of smaller, more modest, but no less impressive examples of turn-of-the-century residences all handsomely refurbished. Most of the neighborhood is made up of northerners who have traded their madcap grown-up world for a kick-back, watch-the-action(what little there is of it here) go-by lifestyleof Belhaven. Many just rocking-chair away the muggy summer evenings on their front porches.

People who know of the River Forest Marina say their dinner buffets are not to be missed---something that enticed us to visit here in the first place. I am sorry to say that the buffet was not quite deserving of the inflated accolades it so enjoys. As sweet as Miss Alice, the spread's culinary creator, is, I confess there were some items on the buffet table such as the broiled tuna steaks and fried oyster fritters that should have been fed to the crabs. The boiled cabbage with mushy white potatoes was sorta palatable and if the Smithfield ham was baked just a smidgen longer it could have given a brine-impregnated piece of shoe leather a run for its money in the taste and texture category. By 0720 the following morning we were off and running towards one of the most boring stretches of intracoastal: the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal. Averaging 10-11 feet in depth, this 21.3-mile canal bends only slightly once on its way to the Alligator River. Entering from the south the canal is not too scenic with much of the timber and brush cleared for cattle ranching. Later, approaching the northern end, the canal gradually becomes thickly lined with pines and other tall-standing trees (maybe elm or something along those lines), low-laying jungle brush and a variety of other non-descript densely leafed vegetation. The water is brackish with an unhealthy coka-cola hue to it. By intracoast mile 105, we were definitely happy to enter the headwaters of the Alligator River and follow its meager beginnings for about four miles until it turned ninety degrees to the northeast and dramatically expands to three times its original width.

We turned in 54 miles that day, and planned on spending the night on the north side of the single-pivoting Alligator River Highway swing bridge at the Alligator River Marina. This would give us an early start to cross the sprawling Albemarle Sound, considered to be the roughest section of the entire ICW when conditions aren't right. The NOAA weather reports sounded promising throughout the remainder of the day and into the dawning hours of the next day. The intracoastal splits into two routes to Norfolk, Virginia about five miles north of the marina where the Alligator River is gobbled up by the expansive Albemarle Sound. What appears to be the most popular, or at least most talked about route, the Dismal Swamp, is eventually accessed by peeling off to the left and heading towards the Pasouotank River and Elizabeth City where the canal begins. The alternate route, known as the Virginia Cut, and the one we decided to go on because of unfavorable reports regarding the depths and debris in the Dismal Swamp, takes about a 33-degree magnetic and heads out across the Sound for fifteen miles before giving us to the North River.

Our crossing was relatively comfortable with only 10-plus knot northwesterly rolling us from side to side for two and a half hours. The seas dropped their irritating chop once we entered the North River. Eight miles later the river funnels down into a twisting, well-marked channel then into the North Carolina Cut passing through the not-so-quaint, yet quaint (for lack of any thing else better to tag it with) town of Coinjock. Two opposing marinas are in Coinjock, and each one tries to out-price the other on fuel. They won't quote you a price over the radio, but I think their just pennies apart, so either one you stop at, you'll still get a darn good price on diesel. Just past Coinjock we entered the extremely shallow Currituck Sound and a little later, the channel of the North Landing River. The combined trip through the sound and river was a 15-mile drill on keeping Countess on course and in the channel port of the stretch of green markers. Occasionally a red marker appeared to starboard just to delineate the channel's other side. We crabbed against a fresh 12-15 knot beam breeze which insisted on pushing us outside the green markers and into three to five foot depths. It was a good test, but a tiring one to continually try to set a proper angle to offset the drift.

Reaching the North Landing River channel finally put an end to our frustrating off-set two-hour trip, and gave us a chance to sit back and follow the river as it quickly funneled down to ten miles worth of meandering until dramatically straightening to become the Albemarle and Chesapeake Canal. The next ten miles our passage seemed to never end as we pointed our way down the razor-straight cut lined with tall, densely grown trees that terminated somewhere way off at a pinpoint on the horizon. At least this canal wasn't as tedious as the Alligator Pungo was. We eventually pulled into the Atlantic Yacht Basin at Great Bridge, Virginia...only 12.2 miles from Mile Zero---the official end of the Eastern Intracoastal Waterway. There's not much to say about this marina other than it's probably the most impersonal facility we've ever visited. No one's there to answer your radio calls. No one's there when you come in to dock. And generally no one's there to take your money. You basically announce on channel 16 that you're coming and, providing there's any room, tie-up at their long dock. Then you pay your bill at the office, and return to your boat. That's that!

First thing the next morning we got our stuff together and made ready to pass through the first of eight bridges plus a tidal lock that would drop us a mere 2 1/2 feet. The first bridge was our only hang-up. We knew that this bridge opened only on the hour. But when we heard its opening signal sound at the half hour just before we were to drop our lines we assumed there was a change in the schedule. We waited twenty minutes and got off the dock thinking the bridge now opens on the half hour. Wrong. The on-the-hour schedule was correct. However they do open on demand for commercial traffic---a little rule we forgot about. Our mistake left us no choice than to tie-up to a holding pier on the other side of the river from the marina and wait. Once past the bridge we immediately had to enter the lock. Fortunately the lock is in synch with the draw bridge and our locking through was painlessly quick . Once out of the lock we just followed the river's channel taking all bends on the wide side and calling ahead to the bridges we needed an opening for. Most the bridges had enough vertical clearance for us to go under or they opened on demand. Only the Gilmore bridge which is synched with a railroad bridge put us into a 20-minute holding pattern. Normally all railroad bridges stay open unless there's a train due within a half hour. In that case, both bridges remain closed until the train completely clears and continues rambling on down the line. Our luck for the day had the Gilmore RR bridge just closing as we rounded the bend which meant doing circles and drifting. We had already notified the traffic bridge on the other side of the RR bridge that we were waiting, so after the train had passed, they both lifted at once allowing us to continue down river.

The Intracoastal widens into what is considered part of the Norfolk shipping and naval yard complex. The further down river we went, the more the shores became built-up with industrial-looking buildings and equipment. And the number of piers and docks, many with several sets of towering cranes, began crowding the river's banks. Every dock was filled to capacity with all sorts and sizes of commercial and naval vessels. The further east we ran the more predominant the naval yards and ships became. I could not even come close to identifying, let alone categorizing, a majority of the naval ships we passed. We did spot several basic carriers---some noticeably smaller length than what I'd call a full-fledged aircraft carrier. My guess is that they are probably escort carriers. We saw one beautiful new battleship, or at least it looked like it came off the showroom floor, moored by its lonesome across the river from a whole slug of what appeared to be naval support/supply ships getting a total refurbish and fit job.

Gradually the river broadened as we approached the main part of Norfolk off to our starboard, while off our port side was the city of Portsmouth. We previously had made reservations at the Waterside Marina right in the heart of downtown Norfolk. This location allowed us immediate touring access to a large mall with eateries and the normal run of shops. Not far from the marina was Norfolk's excellent maritime museum. The marina was reasonably priced and the facilities were up-to-snuff with a helpful, friendly dock crew always around. By noon, the day we arrived, temperatures were going for glory making our stay about as comfortable as being parboiled on the rump of a camel in the middle of the Kalahari Desert. Without air conditioning, all we could do was plug-in all four of our super little Sears clip-on fans, crank 'em to high and open everything on the boat that would let air in. We finally escaped the heat by walking the mall, but then we found ourselves at the other extreme: freezing. Man, does anyone understand what comfort zones are? You can't imagine what it was like when we stepped out of the mall and back into that incredible heat and humidity. I think this was as close as I cared to get to a Virginian purification rite. My body stung as the pores erupted open and blood began to bubble. Not fun...not even for a tourist. Despite the conditions, we added an extra day our stay so we could take in their impressive Maritime Museum. Unfortunately, we ran out of time to thoroughly tour all the museum's floors and exhibits. It's certainly at the top of our list to do on a fall stopover.

Before entering the Chesapeake we needed to cross MILE ZERO of the Eastern Intracoastal Waterway. So on the morning of June 28, one hundred and forty days after we entered the Gulf's Intracoastal Waterway at Galveston Island on December 9, 1996, and without any fanfare or popped bottles of the bubbly, we silently slipped past Mile Zero at Red Buoy #36 out in the middle of the channel just a little west of Norfolk's town center. Statute mile 987 back in Florida, where this log segment begins, marks our total mileage on the Eastern Intracoastal leg, but doesn't take into account the miles we traveled from Texas to Florida and then across that state to Mile #987. Anyway, after we cruised by Mile Zero (it's not even marked on the Buoy) we then proceeded across the Hampton Roads carefully watching a large aircraft carrier approaching a few miles off to our port slowly get larger while to our starboard, a container ship was quickly bearing down on our channel-crossing course. We edged ahead of the carrier, but passing in front of the container ship was out of the question. Once this big fella churned by, we continued on towards a marked channel that would show us the way into the Hampton River and the docks of the Hampton Yacht Club. Tomorrow begins a whole new log on our next cruising adventure: the Chesapeake Bay.