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   Old Codger took me to this year's B&B messabout way across the state near Bayboro, N.C. We always enjoy getting together with the gang and talking about boats...and most everything else! But we also like to take a short cruise while we are there. Sunday is the day to do that. Plenty of folks will write about the messabout and post pictures, so we'll just tell y'all about our little cruise, so hang on, get comfy and follow along.

   We had followed the weather forecast all week, and made a final check on Saturday night. Looked pretty good. Saturday had been spent with all the great folks at the messabout. Old and new friends, lotsa fine food, stories and tall tales, solving the world's problems. You know how it is.

   I conferred with Old Codger, and he said, “Let's do it!”. So, next morning, we set off at 8:15 accompanied by a gentle breeze and overcast skis. But no rain. It was chilly at just under sixty degrees, but, snuggled into a warm sweater, it was bearable. We soon “putsd” (a technical cruising term aboard Old Codger) and headed out the Bay River.

   We passed the River Edge Campground where some of the messabout folks stay. Then we cruised by an area occupied by “oyster farm” pens. I'm sure that isn't the real name, but what do us mountain folks know about that. Anyway, they were like a series of wire boxes where little bitty oyster larvae can grow into big, juicy oysters. There are several of these in and around the Bay River.

    Another thing the river is popular for is duck shooting. There are platforms on shore, or a little way out in the water, that hunters occupy during the duck hunting season, shivering in the cold, drinking beer and blasting away at the poor duckies. The one we are passing right now is nothing more that a collection of pilings surrounded with some framing, but no decking, railings, roof, or anything. Well. That's not quite true, It has a large collection of sea gulls awaiting the duck's arrival. Codger says the gulls are going to warn the ducks to stay away. I'm not so sure about that, but I've learned to never disagree with him on these matters. Here is a platform that is in pretty good repair. There is a good, solid deck attached to the poles, and  plywood walls with windows on three sides. The forth side has a “duck blind” made up of reeds from the Spartina grass that borders much of the shoreline. This one has a collection of gulls perched on the roof.

   We enjoy seeing the many large houses that we pass on our trip. The houses are raised on poles to get them above a possible storm surge that could be as high as twenty feet in a large hurricane. Often, the “poles” are connected with walls to form a garage or storage area. If a storm comes, all the stuff under the house is carted away to somewhere high and dry. There are also plenty of “trailers-on-a-stick”, mobile homes raised the same way.

  Soon we come to the Vandemere waterfront.  Docks and a forest of pilings, but there are no trawlers at the docks of Cross Seafood today. No one seems to be around the several buildings that make up the marina complex. Looks like a lonesome place. The last time we were here, the docks were crowded with boats. We try to peek between the commercial buildings to see some of the old homes near the shore, but we can't see much. Let's get out of here and continue our trek.

   As we neared the mouth of the Pamlico river, we passed a large marked off area with “permit” signs designating more oyster pens. Passing them was a pod of dolphins, rolling in the channel like they were playing. You sure don't see anything like that up in the mountain lakes! There must have been a couple dozen of them. Back when I was a young-un in the mid 60s, there was a TV show about a bottle nosed dolphin called “Flipper”. He was the pet of Porter Ricks, chief warden at Coral Key Park and Marine Preserve, and his two sons. They had many exciting adventures together.

   The next interesting thing we see is a large house standing guard over the entrance to Racoon Creek, which is part of the Intracoastal waterway leading through the Goose Creek Game Lands to the Pamlico River. The house is three stories high with an extension on top that looks like a guard tower with windows on all four sides. It is situated on the last point of land with the front facing the Bay River, and one side facing Racoon Creek. As we round the corner, we can see that the tower projects behind the main house and has several levels of windows. Are they landings in a stairway? There is a metal sea wall arrangement facing the water, and just above, a huge concrete ramp leading from a driveway into double doors opening into the lowest level of the house. A big garage type building is located a short distance away. We wonder about the folks that live in this “castle”. It puts us in mind of a prison with guards and machine guns in the tower. The only thing missing is a high fence topped with razor wire! Old Codger is looking at me in an odd way. He thinks I get kinda carried away with my imagination.

   Leaving the fascinating structure behind, we head on into the entrance to the part of the canal that has been cut through the peninsula. The canal joins Racoon Creek on the Bay River side, with Goose Creek on the other. Part way through, on the right is some kind of huge gasoline powered pump mounted on a trailer with a big round pipe projecting into the water. There is a short section of sea wall with big broken-up slabs of concrete, sheet metal, and boards piled at the end. We can see a building of some sort back away from the shore, but our vision is obstructed and we can't make out just what it might be.

  Just past the pump is a cleared area literally covered with Canada Geese. Wall-to-wall geese! I bet there are almost a hundred of them jostling around and honking at each other! As we pass, a large number of them ramble into the air, fly a short way, and settle into the canal. I'm always interested in what a large group of animals is called. A group of geese is called a “gaggle”. Makes sense. They are always carrying on squawking and honking, Gaggling!

   On the left, and just past Jones bay, we see the sign for Mayo Sea Food. It is a big sign mounted on pilings faces the waterway with “R.E. Mayo Seafood” painted on it, and spelled out above the name is “Welcome Recreational Boats”. On either side of the name sign, are two smaller signs listing the services provided. These signs have chunks broken off as if they had been hit by a passing trawler.

   Copied from the web site, “RE Mayo Seafood brings a century of tradition to sailors, seafood lovers and to anyone that loves the coast. Located on the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) in Hobucken, NC, RE Mayo Seafood is ideally situated for the boater. Our facilities, service and dockage, are geared towards the transient, sail and power vessel alike. As the name implies, RE Mayo Seafood specializes in seafood. We have long been known as the hub for locally caught fish, crabs, scallops and shrimp. You can buy a wide variety in just about any quantity you like. We’ll pack it for you fresh or fresh frozen!” As we approach, we notice the high rise bridge crossing the waterway. This is Hwy 304 that leads into the town of Hobuckin. We soon pass a collection of buildings, and two big fishing trawlers tied up to docks in front.

   Next up is the USCG Hobucken Station. Cute little thing nestled in just past the bridge. There are just  some small RIB boats painted in Cost Guard orange at the docks but no patrol patrol boat. Three or four small buildings are scattered in an area cleared in the trees. Several cars are parked near by.

   As we pass the station, a big cruising sailing catamaran approaches. It looks to be about thirty-five or forty feet long, and is sailing “all wung out” wing and wing before the breeze, making barely a ripple from it's wake. Right behind the cat is a cruising powerboat of about the same size. In contrast to the cat, it is traveling at a sped carefully calculated to make the biggest possible wake! That seems to be what most of he powerboats do coming through the canal. Stern down, bow thrusting towards the sky, pushing a wall of water ahead of it. Old Codger says “bad words, bad words” under his breath, and turns to intersect the wake at a forty-five degree angle. I try to take a picture, but can't steady the camera. Other than being tossed around a bit, we come through unscathed.

   Now we're traveling along the man made canal that connects the creeks. There is a wall of forest  lining either bank. Occasionally we spy a “long legs” standing on a half submerged log. That's what Codger calls the blue herons. And there's a kingfisher flitting along ahead of us. As we approach, he takes off and flies a little way before landing on a branch, only to do it all over again as we come closer

  It has been sprinkling a little since we entered Racoon Creek. And the wind has been steadily increasing in strength. The farther we go, the worse it gets. The sprinkle turns to a drizzle, the drizzle turns into a steady rain. I duck below, leaving my little boat to his own devices, to don my fowl weather gear. Back in my place in the cockpit, I can see our goal ahead---the Pamlico River. But we are now in a more open part of Goose Creek. The waves have been building, and it's “blowing like stink”. We're heading directly into the wind. White caps are forming, and I guess the wind must be at twenty miles per hour or more. Old Codger is fighting the incessant wind for control, but his bow keeps getting blown around. It's miserable! Cruising is supposed to be FUN! This ain't NO fun! We quickly confer on our choices, and by mutual decision, we decide to save the Pamlico for another time, and turn to head back the way we came. Going with the wind, Mr. Hatsu, Codger's twenty horse power Tohatsu motor, takes us at the same speed as the wind. Now I'm more comfortable with the rain and spray not blowing in my face.

   It's not long before we are back at the bridge. When we came through the other way, I noticed an old bridge abutment next to the new bridge. Before the high-rise was built, there was a swing bridge here. We pass under the bridge and idle over close to the abutment. It is nothing more than a concrete wall topped with a railing to keep folks from driving into the canal. There are several warning signs posted above the rail.

  Codger has a reputation for sticking his nose into interesting coves and creeks, and a perfect opportunity shows up here. The old road still comes up to the canal, and ends at the abutment. Next to the road is an interesting looking creek. We duck in. It's wonderful to be out of the wind. The creek is short and leads to a home. It is a blue, two story house setting on  a solid looking concrete block garage, raising the living quarters above the storm surge. Next to the house, and attached to it, is a rather strange looking structure. It has a heavy concrete floor or platform setting on concrete block pillars so the floor is at the same level as the house. Built on top of this, there is a screen room, with plastic outdoor furniture inside. Next to that is a expansive metal shed with strings of crab pot buoys stretched across an open part of the shed. A center console powerboat, with a big outboard motor hanging on the transom is next to the shed. There is a good sized dock next to the house, but no boats are tied to it today. All-in-all, a cozy home setting from the days that the road to the bridge passed by directly in front of.

   We take our leave of the pleasant homestead and return to the canal. We pass Mayo Seafood and turn to port into Jones Bay which intersects the canal at this point. It's not long before we come to Bill's Creek, which leads us into the waterfront section of Hobucken. Hobucken is an unincorporated sleepy little community in Pamlico County. The 2020 census shows a population of 38. That number sound a lot too small, but it is a small community. We pass several houses and a cbig sized amper on our left, along with some mobile homes as we approach the marina. A man is launching his skiff on a short ramp. It looks like the boat is hung up on the trailer, and the man is definitely not happy! Everywhere we look are crab pots, and various other fishing gear.

   Just beyond that are the docks for the marina. A trawler was next to one of the docks, with nets hanging from the outriggers. Next to that is a fiberglass runabout that had been converted to a crabbing skiff. A high bulwark has been built on the front half of the boat. Apparently they work on windy days when the bay builds up a stiff chop. The bulwark should keep out most of the spray. In the center of the boat is a tall, skinny pilot house, just big enough for one fisherman to stand in to get out of the weather.

   When the time comes to set the traps, the entire aft end of a crabbing skiff will be piled high with the wire traps. Sometimes, one man will operate the boat, and also set the traps overboard. But other times, one will pilot the boat, while the other sets the traps. They travel into the area that they think the blue crabs will be in, and space them out in a row.

   When the traps are all set, the crabbers will come back after a few days to pull the traps, dump the crabs into the boat, replace the bait, and drop the traps overboard again. They time it takes to idle from one trap to the next so that when a trap is pulled up, the one just baited is dropped in it's place. It's fascinating to watch. Almost artistry in motion.

   We have come to the end of the creek. We see the marina up ahead, but not much seems to be happening. There is a small trawler and a pontoon boat tied to the docks on the other side of the harbor area, but no people are around.

  The pontoon boat is a typical aluminum hulled craft like the ones we see up on our mountain lakes. Purely a pleasure and party style boat. It looks out of place in what is a commercial fishing setting. I suppose pleasure boats have a place here, too.

   The marina is facing Highway 304 and we see a few cars passing by. Other than that, everything appears quiet and peaceful. Hobucken looks like a pleasant little village to live in.

   It's time to turn around and go back the way we came. On the left is a row of dilapidated abandoned houses with weeds growing all around, and docks collapsing into the creek. At first I wonder why no one is living in them, but then realize they are all built at ground level, which is only about five feet above the water. It wouldn't take much of a storm surge to flood them. I can imagine folks moving here expecting a happy lifestyle on the creek, but then a storm comes and they are flooded out. The most surprising thing is that anyone wouldn't have known to not build them that way in the first place.

   Just after the houses is a small, old mobile home, with a large shed built next to it. They are both painted a pretty shade of light blue, but like the houses, they are abandoned, and beginning to fall apart. It's so sad to think of the people that lived here. I wonder how they felt when their dreams were shattered when they had to move out. Did they move away from the treacherous coast in fear of future storms? Or did they relocate somewhere else in town on higher ground? Or in raised houses that could survive whatever Mother Nature would throw at them? I suppose we'll never know, so let's just continue on.

   We're just about to the mouth of the creek now. On the shore beyond the last abandoned structure, is a curious hound watching us. He seems to be wondering who we are, and what we are doing in his creek. Old Codger certainly isn't any kind of fishing or crabbing boat. The sad faced hound follows us with his eyes as we exit his creek, and the little lonesome community of Hobucken.

   We're almost back to where are adventure began, but one last mystery remains to be investigated. We're back in Raccoon Creek again. We pass by what sure looks like an island on the left with several nice looking buildings on it. They don't look like houses. Let's take a closer look. We cruise along the waterfront that faces the open water. Then we circle around to the left to circumnavigate the island. Part way around, we notice a building set back from the water's edge with a large sign on it. Docks protrude out from the shore on this side. Codger takes me in for a closer look. The sign reads “Jones Island Club”. Maybe the whole island is a hunting camp. I'll have to google it when we get home. We continue around and—-what's this? It isn't a real island after all! There is a strip of exposed land connecting it to the bank of the creek. I stand and look across the “neck” which is covered with swamp grass. No sign of a road that I can see.

   Here is the mystery. As I'm writing this, I pull up a Google satellite view of Jones Island Club. WHAT?!?! The dang island is on the OTHER side of the creek!  And its not an island at all! Just an isthmus projecting out from the mainland. And there's a real road leading into it—Gale Creek Road! And there are only three small buildings on it—not the nice looking buildings I saw! And the shape is totally different, with a short canalish looking thing leading up to one of the buildings. The island we saw didn't have anything like that! WHAAAAT!  I don't know WHAT to think! I search the satellite view or another likely island, but none appears. Could I have imagined the whole thing? No, I ask Old Codger about it and he remembers it the same as I do. This dang thing is going to keep me awake for many nights  trying to figure it out! Oh well, let's move on to finish our cruise.

   That's about the end of the story. One last notable thing Codger wants to check out.  On the way in to the canal, we spotted a dilapidated looking sailboat aground in a shallow area. We didn't stop at the time, but I guess we need to now. We idle over to where it rests and circle around it. It is a small, white cruiser about twenty-five  feet long. It is hard aground with the stern raised a bit, and the bow pointing down. Apparently resting on it's keel. The main sail is loosely flopped over the boom with a line draping down from the masthead and wrapped several coils around it, but with large folds of the sail hanging down on either side. I have no idea what the line actually is for. The jib has been dropped onto the fore deck, but it is mostly drooped over the side into the water. A pair of fenders are suspended over the starboard side. At first we thought that the boat had been washed here in a storm, and then abandoned, but there is an anchor rode stretched out from the bow. Had it been here all along? Or had the owner come after it was blown her and set the anchor? Why had he never come back? I guess it will have to remain a mystery.

   By now the rain is coming up again. It had been a light sprinkle, but is becoming a drizzle again. As we continue heading pack to port, the rain becomes steady, and the wind picks up. Old Codger wants to anchor and wait for the rain to blow over. Today was supposed to be mostly cloudy with a few showers, so we'll just stop and wait for the rain to taper off again.. We pull over near shore and anchor. I check the chart and see that we are close to the entrance of “No Jacket Creek”. Doncha just love the names of the points and creeks around here?

   I duck into Codger's snug cabin. The rain is getting harder, and it starts blowing. I fix myself my typical cruising lunch of Vienna sausage, bar-b-q tater chips, Mountain Dew, and for desert, a chocolate pudding cup. Then I snuggle in and listen to some of my big band music cassette tapes. Then I read a bit in my favorite book, “Princess”. It's going on three-thirty now. My wife calls me. I tell her what I've

   Meanwhile, Old Codger is informing me that he has had enough! He's jerking on the anchor rode. Heading off to one side until it pulls him up short, then over to the other side, but the same thing happens. He's getting downright cranky about the whole situation! I guess he's right. I agree with him. It's time to get going. In the rain, wind, and chop. I pull on my foul weather gear and climb back to Mr. Hatsu, and wake him up, pushing his starter button. As he warms himself up for the trip, I go forward and weigh anchor. That's all there is to tell y'all about for this trip. We made it back to the ramp and loaded up without incident. Just the long, wet, seven hour drive back home to Hendersonville. See all of y'all next time.

Every year in the autumn, I get a week off for  single handed cruising , normally on Lake Constance.

Lake Constance is'nt just the only body of water big enough for cruising in the region where I live, it is also very beautiful with picturesque and neatly kept up towns and villages all around and rolling hills covered in forests, fields and vineyards. To the south-east, there is the majestic backdrop of The Alpes. The lake is 63 km long and 14 km wide;  there are ports and marinas aplenty .

People of former days liked the region too so everything oozes history - from remains of stone age settlements (and a splendid open air museum of replicas) through findings of the Romans, medeival- als well as baroque castles and churches to more modern developments such as the Zeppelin-Museum and  aircraft industry.

Lake Constance is an international body of water with parts of the shoreline belonging to Swizzerland, to Austria and to Germany  respectively. It is also the souce of drinking water for several millions of people. 

All this surely makes it understanable that there are strict rules for boating (and everything else) even though not each and every of these make sense to everybody. 

Last year I had to re-certify Muckla. She was examined, particularly the emergency-equipment and found good. It was a sunny day with a light breeze. After I had got my certificate and sticker, I cast off and headed SE for Wasserburg under a light westerly breeze. Slowly the wind picked up and I enjoyed a quick deep reach. As there were some heavy clouds, I donned my foul weather gear including PFD and sailed on, now and then in full planing mode. 

Due to that course, it took me some time to realize how strong the wind meanwhile was. After a jibe, a strong gust hit me and made her luff up and heel over a lot. With my dinghy sailer-reflexes, I dumped both sheets and rolled in the jib (well, almost, there remained a small proportion open, enough to make tremendous noise). Then, under mainsail alone, I wanted to round her up into the wind to douse or at least reef the main. But she refused. I tried many times but she always came from a run only to a beam reach but I did'nt bring her into the wind. With the mainsail flogging, she still heeled so much that I did'nd dare to leave my position on the side deck for fear of capsizing.

I tried to start the electric motor but its cable had wriggled loose and so it did'nt work. To get it running, I would have to open an inspection port in the cockpit and use both hands which seemed too dangerous in the given situation.

So I had the choice of either running into port at planing speed, hoping to find calmer water and less wind and thus better maneuverability and at the same time fearing to hit something hard and expensive like a boat on a mooring - or otherwise drift sideways onto the shore. 

Then there was a crack and the rudder was broken. This left me (so I felt) without any choice. I was really scared. I had to actively convince myself that my life was not at risk but only my beloved boat.  And all the emergency equippment that I have to carry along was absolutely useless.

Now, even beeing scared, I am not the type to just do nothing. Since there was no rudder left to work with, I stood on the side deck, hooked my left arm around the windward shroud and, in between the gutst, reached with my right hand for the mainsail's tack and pulled for a few seconds. So very slowly, I got the mainsail down. Of course this did'nt prevent it from playing mischief - but it was mischief with little leverage and manageble. Now I could fix the motor and drive into port. 

When  I had finally tied her up and fastened the sails, disaster made another attempt: I lost my mobile phone. I thougt, I couldnt even tell my wife - but then I found it lying on the jetty.

Only then it occured to me, that I might have got her into the wind if I had dared to sheet in the main a little to give her enough drive against the chop to roud up. Who knows - maybe the old rudder would still be there by now.

I went to a restaurant for dinner (as I always do on my cruises) and phoned my wife. 

The night was not quiet. Neither was the water nor the boat, let alone my soul. I thougt of motoring back (would there be enough power in the battery ?) or of several ways of repairing the rudder.

The following mornig was calm and sunny and my mood had improved a lot. Of course, I would repair and proceed my jouney.

As everyone knows, on an old wooden boat there must be a well filled tool box. But as everyone also knows, there isnt much space for tools on an old wooden and small boat. My solution is carrying smallish tools, partyl childrens tools (some of them are really from my childhood days). One is a egg-beater-style hand drill.

With this, I drilled a new pivot hole in the broken rudder blade, having removed the small upper part, fixed the position with a bolt to prevent it from swinging up and a webbing strap to prevent it from swinging forward. And I was ready to go. 

Apart from the rudder, the jib was damaged too, so I changed to the genoa.

Muckla behaved almost as normal with the smaller rudder and I went on cruising for the rest of the week.

The repaired boat in Wasserburg-harbour

The front before it reached me. Strangely, the gale-warning lights did not flash.

Old Codger Visits the Coast

Just in case you've not read any Old Codger stories, let me introduce myself. I’m an old codger living in the mountains of North Carolina. I built my boat Old Codger to explore the bigger lakes in the Appalachian area. He's a modified 15 foot Jessy 15 design by B&B Yacht Designs, He has a comfy cabin, just big enough for me to sleep in. Old Codger has been bugging me to take him to where his roots started from. I began building boats to accompany me in my adventures while I was living on the coast of North Carolina. To be more exact, the Core Sound, Neuse River, and Pamlico River, especially the Beaufort area. Before we go any farther, I’d better explain that there is also a Beaufort in South Carolina. NEVER confuse them with each other. Here’s what you need to know. The Beaufort we’re talking about is pronounced “BO-fort”. The other one is called “BEW-fort”. So, now you know this important factoid and we can carry on with our essay.

Several years ago, we had moved from where we lived near Beaufort to the mountains of North Carolina. I have been really missing my “home waters” and wanted to travel back for a visit. The plan was to trailer Codger to my favorite boat launch access area in Beaufort. It is a roomy ramp located on Taylor Creek, across from Carrot Island. I like it because it is convenient to reach and launch from, and is safe place to leave the truck and trailer overnight in the spacious parking area. After an eight hour drive, I was tired and anxious to get to Beaufort, launch Old Codger, and cruise to my anchorage for the night. But, what’s this? The ramp is closed for maintenance! I asked a workman what was going on and he told me that they had just begun repaving the ramp and that it would be closed for the next two weeks. Good grief! I’ve been away for six years, and just happened to plan my trip at the exact time it was closed.

All I could do was go to another ramp. After considering the alternatives, I decided on the one on Harker’s Island. It’s not as nice, and there is no bathroom, it is much smaller, and can be very crowded. It is about fifteen miles away, but easy enough to get to. As it turns out, there was no one else launching when we first pulled in. I got Codger ready and backed down the ramp. About that time, several trucks pulled into the parking lot with a variety of boats. I hurriedly launched the Codger and tied him to the dock while I parked the truck and trailer. I rushed back, climbed aboard, and started my mighty twenty horse power Tohatsu motor, logically named ”Mr. Hatsu”. (What else!) Just as I was releasing the dock lines, I heard another rig backing down the ramp. Suddenly I heard and felt a BANG! Unbelievably, the boat that was being launched had slid off of the trailer and drifted right into us. His motor cowling had bumped into our anchor which is stored on a bowsprit. No damage to us, but a big scratch on the other boat’s cowling. The owner waved sheepishly at us, and I waved back with a big grin.

It’s really rough out today. We motor slowly along the channel in front of Harker’s Island on our way out to Cape Lookout where I’ll spend the night. We’ll tuck in behind the spoil islands between Harker’s and the cape. These spoil islands were created from what was dredged up when they dug the channel that cuts through the shallows between Harker's Island and the outer banks. The wind is blowing straight down the Core Sound, and into Back Sound, today, and the islands provide some protection. I’m on the wrong side of the islands from the channel, but it’s almost high tide, so it should be safe. Finally we reach the anchorage in Lookout Bight. I’ll have to anchor on the eastern side rather than the side along the channel behind the usual anchorage because of the wind-blown waves blowing across the bight. I anchor in shallow water protected by Core Banks. By the time I’ve settled in and heated up my can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti, the Sun is setting. My faithful reader may have figured out by now that I really enjoy sunsets, and have to take a picture of every one. But, sorry, I can't show them to you here. You'll just have to travel to the coast and take your own pictures.

Next morning, I’d planned to cruise up the Sound to see the sights I used to enjoy years ago, but the wind was still blowing 15 to 20, too much for Old Codger to navigate the steep chop that builds up in Core Sound, so I went the other way. Maybe I’ll just explore the Beaufort and Morehead City waterfronts. On the way, I’ll get some pictures. You'd enjoy the one of the Cape Lookout lighthouse, with it''s black and white spiraling color scheme. All of the lighthouses up and down the coast have different paint schemes. I’ll just have to state right here that I’ve missed the “salt life”, but didn’t realize how much until now. It certainly does feel good to be “home”. Come along and I’ll tell you about some of the sights.

Here is the Cape Lookout Lighthouse that I just told you about. Next to it is the chief light keeper’s home. It is a big two story white house with black shutters, facing the water, and has a full length covered porch. There are brick chimneys at each end. No one lives there anymore. These days, it is the park service head quarters for the area. There originally was another house for the assistant light keeper, long gone now. The light is automated. The park ranger’s office looks empty now. I’d get out and check, but the wind and current keeps me from pulling on shore. To the right of the house, and closer to the water is a little white building. It's the kitchen that remains from the days that the light keeper and his family lived here. Back in the days of wood burning stoves, the kitchen was always separated from the main house to prevent an accidental fire from burning the living quarters. Since the last time I was here, the shore has been washed away and is much closer to the kitchen.

As we follow the shore around the back side of the banks, we see a long dock leading to an assorted collection of buildings. Some are camping cabins built by the park service, some are old houses that remain from the days that folks lived and worked on the outer banks. Farther in, there is a large structure that was once a Coast Guard station. It's well away from the water. I wonder about that. Was the shore line closer back when it was an active station? It is only used for storage now.

Next comes the old life saving station, now abandoned. One building is collapsed into a pile of rubble. A long dock leads out from the buildings of the station. I should explain that Lookout Bight is very shallow except for the channel. The docks have to be long enough to reach water deep enough to be able to get a boat up to the dock at low tide. From the dock, there is a road, Cape Lookout Road, that leads into the island, first passing the old Coast Guard Station, and then several homes that were once part of Cape City. Maybe that isn't the correct name, but a ranger once told me that it was. There once was a settlement in this part of the banks called Diamond City. In 1899, a hurricane struck the banks, and through the settlement.

There were about 500 residents living here at the time the hurricane came through and destroyed much of the village. The last of the residents had left by 1902. Many loaded there houses onto barges if they were small enough, or disassembled the larger ones to load them, and took their house with them, relocating them to nearby places such as Harker's Island, Salter Path, and Morehead City. You can still see those relocated houses today if you know where to look. I've been told that the cemetery still remains on the island, hidden among the sand dunes. I'd love to explore it. Maybe Codger will bring me back here some day to do just that. Actually, there are several cemeteries on the banks, left from the days when whaling was a major industry here, and villages were scattered all up and down the outer banks.

We stay in the channel as we continue our journey. We notice one of the channel marker buoys as we pass it. Old #2 is leaning way over in the wind and current. It’s pretty choppy in the channel, but with the sand bars just below the surface, I’d rather be safe and follow the channel. Old Codger heartily agrees!

Now we’ve gone out through Barden Inlet and are passing along the shore outside of Shackleford Bank, called just “Shack” by the locals. Barden inlet didn’t used to be here at all. The banks had been unbroken until the inlet was created by a hurricane in 1933. Barden Inlet is one of the best passes from the Atlantic into the sound. We’ll remain near shore all the way down to Beaufort Inlet, which enters the sound directly across from the town of Beaufort. The banks are protecting us from the offshore wind. Usually, there is a sea-breeze blowing ashore, making the channel behind the banks the calmest route.

The shrimper fleet is out today. There are at least twenty trawlers in view. They must be hauling in a good catch. The seagulls are enjoying the catch, too! There is a large flock of them wheeling around the sky, just behind each trawler. Another large group are sitting on the beach. These guys are either awaiting their turn, or are digesting what they’ve already feasted on. Some are flying above the beach, diving at others that are carrying a morsel in their beaks. All are hollering “MINE-MINE!” Seagulls are very greedy and vociferous. Here's an interesting tid-bit. A bunch of seagulls is correctly called a “colony”. WAIT, before you jump all over me, I know that the term most often used is “flock”. Some would argue that it is a colony when they gather to nest, but a flock the rest of the time. Call 'em what you want. A few happy pelicans have joined the crowd on the beach. “Behold the pelican, his bill holds more that his belly can.”

Now we’re entering into Beaufort Inlet. We pass a line of lights mounted high on towers. These are range lights. Ships coming in from the ocean line up the lights to help them remain in the shipping channel. As we sight along the line of towers, we see a large white building covered with windows, and topped by a red tile roof. The building is the Olde Towne Yacht Club. We’ll see it closer later when we visit the creek next to it. Beaufort inlet can be treacherous under certain conditions. Just after we moved here twenty years ago, a thirty foot fishing boat had been rolled over in the channel while trying to pass through the surf zone with an onshore breeze meeting the out-flowing current. Several people drowned in the accident. But the pass is behaving itself today.

As we approach the Beaufort waterfront, we’re passed by one of the ferries that take folks out to Shackleford bank. It is a large pontoon boat and looks to be at least twenty five or thirty feet long. There is an aluminum canopy supported on poles extending up from a railing that surrounds the boat, and covering rows of seats. On the back are twin monster outboard motors. The ferry is empty now. It has dropped off a load of tourists on Shack for an afternoon outing, and will come back for them later.

We’ve turned into the channel leading to the Beaufort waterfront. The channel splits, with one branch leading into Beaufort, and the other branch passing the Morehead Shipping Port and the Morehead waterfront before continuing on down the Intracoastal waterway. Today, we’ll be traveling up Taylor Creek along the Beaufort waterfront. On the other side of the creek is Carrot Island. I'll tell you more about the island in a bit.

“Beaufort is a town in Carteret County, North Carolina, and is the county seat. Established in 1709 and incorporated in 1723, Beaufort is the third-oldest town in North Carolina. On February 1, 2012, Beaufort was ranked as ‘America's Coolest Small Town’ by readers of Budget Travel Magazine.” (quoted from Wikipedia)

If we had come south on the ICW, we would have passed through the Adams Creek Canal, out the Newport River, and under a high bridge before either passing by the port, or out into the Atlantic. Coming that way, we would have passed under a high bridge, and turned to port and proceeded on up Taylor's Creek. Folks around here call these high bridges “high rises”. Makes sense. After we see what there is to see along the Beaufort waterfront, we will return to explore in this direction.

The first interesting structure we pass is the Beaufort Maritime Museum. If you can ever visit the area, be sure to stop off here. There is a large collection of historical boats from this area, and many informative displays about the whaling and fishing industry that developed here. There is even a display of artifacts recovered from the wreck of the ship Queen Ann's Revenge, the pirate Blackbeard's flagship that he purposely wrecked and abandoned in Topsail Inlet, now called Beaufort Inlet, in 1718.

Blackbeard the pirate often visited the area. His ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge was intentionally sunk at the entrance to Beaufort inlet. He had transferred his “booty” to another boat, the sloop, Adventure, and leaving most of his pirate crew behind, escaped with his most trusted pirate buddies to Ocracoke Inlet where he met his end at the sword of Lieutenant Maynard of the Royal Navy, who had been dispatched by Governor Spotswood of Virginia with the assignment of either capturing or killing the notorious pirate. It’s a fascinating story. Look it up when you get a chance. While you’re at it, find a copy of the book The Last Days of Blackbeard the Pirate by Kevin P. Duffus. Duffus has a theory that Blackbeard actually came from a family that lived in Bath, North Carolina. He has thoroughly researched all that is known of Blackbeard and does a good job supporting his theory.

Secured to the dock near the museum is an interesting boat named “Pirate’s Revenge”. It is probably about thirty-five feet long, has a traditional looking black, flush-decked hull, with a single pole mast sticking up. The intent is to mimic Queen Ann's Revenge. It is one of several boats that offer various kinds of local cruises. They give local history during harbor cruises, sunset cruises, dinner cruises, and others. I've never taken one of them. Old Codger and I like to do our own little cruises.

Now we pass a pair of big barges sinking pilings for a new dock. One barge carries a big yellow crane with tank-like tracks. The crane lifts the pilings off the barge, and sets them vertically next to it. It then pounds them into the layers of mud and sand on the creek bottom. The other barge is the tug that pushes the one with the crane. This one is outboard powered with twin big bore Yamaha motors. It sports a tower-like arrangement, open underneath, with a steering station on top. It;s high enough that the helmsman can see ahead over the one he's pushing. You often see these rigs traveling from work site to worksite along the waterway.

You have to be careful when you anchor along Carrot Island. The water is shallow close to shore. We pass a large fiberglass cruising sloop laying over at a forty-five degree angle in the shallow water, with the curve of the bilge hard against the bottom and the keel exposed. This poor fellow found out the hard way.

Carrot Island is also home to the Rachael Carson Preserve. Rachel Louise Carson was an American marine biologist, author, and conservationist whose book Silent Spring and other writings are credited with advancing the global environmental movement. In the past, I've canoed through shallow cuts across the inland, and walked the shores. There is lots of wildlife to see her, both on the island, and in the water.

There is a large colony of diamond back terrapins inhabiting the shallow waters on the other side of Carrot Island. They are a species of salt and brackish water turtle living in tidal areas around the southern United States. One day I picked up several to look at. They are protected by law, so never take one home with you. Back in the colonial period into the early 1900s, they were almost hunted to extinction by the food industry. They were considered a delicacy and were popular in gourmet restaurants around the world. Today, they are still in danger from poachers for the pet trade, loss of habitat, pollution, and from getting caught in crab traps and drowning, and nets from commercial fishing industry.

Just coming into view on the port side is the NC Wildlife Boating Access I had intended to use. I see a lot of equipment parked in the large, paved parking area above the twin, double boat ramps. Several workmen are standing around talking together and surveying the job site. There are stacks of concrete blocks and other building materials at the entrance to the actual ramps. Finger piers jut out on either side of the ramps, and down the center dividing the ramps. The access area is reached on land from the Lennoxville Rd. You turn off before the road goes to Lennoxville point, where the road ends at the North River. Directly across the river from the point, is Harker's Island. When we launch at the Beaufort ramp, we usually head on north, passing Harker's Island, but we won't go much further north on this outing.

Next to the ramp is a giant marina complex. Only a few years ago, this was the site of a fish packing plant with docks for the menhaden fishing fleet. These boats are sometimes called “pogey boats”. They are all gone now from the Beaufort area. As we pass the marina, we continue a short way past a waterfront residential area, before coming to the end of Carrot Island. It is being slowly washed away at this end. The outer banks are moving south as sand is washed from one end and deposited at the other. It is a constant war between mankind and the elements.

We turn around and head back the way we came. On the shore we see a long-legged fellow watching us pass as we retrace our path back down Taylor Creek. He is a large, white egret. We see a collection of these guys, along with great blue herons, sea gulls, pelicans, ospreys, sand pipers, and more, every time we are on the water. I had hoped to see the wild horses that have made their home on the island. They live on this and other islands of the outer banks, and it is said that they are descended from horses brought ashore by Spanish explorers of the New World more than 500 years ago. But today, w don't see any. I know they are there, but must be hiding back among he trees.

I take time for my fancy lunch while we drift along with the out-flowing tidal current that flows swiftly down the sound and through Taylor Creek. Vienna sausage, cheese balls, homemade cookies, and Real Southern Sweet Tea. Be sure to read my carefully researched stories about The True History of Vienna Sausage and Real Southern Sweet Tea. As I eat my lunch, I'm hoping my feet aren't getting sunburned. Unless it’s too cold, I always go shoeless while I’m on the boat.

Further on, we pass again through the anchorage along the creek. There aren’t many boats here today, but during cruising season, it’s packed. To port, in the creek near shore on the Carrot Island side,is the tower that is the last of the range lights I told you about awhile ago. Near by, on the beach, is a group of school kids on a field trip. I never got to do anything this much fun back when I went to school at Glen Oak Elementary back down in good ol’ St. Pete. Pulled up on shore is their transportation. It is a big Carolina Skiff. It sure would be fun to drive one of these tour boats for a living.

We’ve now turned into the channel past Pivers Island. We pass close by the Duke University Marine Lab, and the NOAA Beaufort Lab.

Rather than heading under the high rise bridge and voyaging up the ICU towards Adams Creek, we’ll turn back and pass the North Carolina Port. As we pass radio Island, we poke in close to shore to look at a gaggle of commercial fishing boats. In the background is the Hwy 70 bridge from Morehead City to Beaufort. There is big trawler “on the ways”, being rebuilt. We’ll pass under the Pivers Island Bridge and head towards Radio Island. It's a low bridge, but Old Codger scootches down and passes safely under it. There is the the “Olde Towne Yacht Club” that we saw from a distance as we were entering Beaufort Inlet.

There are several sea gulls sitting on the pilings in front of the yacht club, like beady-eyed sentinels guarding the creek that used to be lined with thriving boat yards. Let’s see what remains. It all looks to be in a state of decay. The last time I was here, this was a busy area. But now, buildings have been torn down and the land is being cleared and leveled. There is still a little being accomplished here, but the end is near. There is one large trawler laying on it's side in the shallow water near the shore. This one appears to be way beyond repair. Modern development is slowly taking over. “Out with the old, in with the new”.

We’ve come back out of the creek and are heading into the basin where the ships come in from the ocean. Over on the port side is the Coast Guard Station at Fort Macon. The first ship we see is a buoy tender. It's a big, black ship, with the red and white diagonal stripe painted on the bow, and USCG emblem emblazoned on the stripe. Down the side of the hull, in white letters is lettered “US COAST GUARD”. On the fore deck are several bouys, and the derrick arrangement used to lift them into the water. Farther down the station docks, a couple of cutters are tied to the dock. They are white with the same diagonal on stripe and emblem on the bows.

We notice a piling with a white sign attached to it, with the words “DANGER”, and something we can't read in small letters below that. A pair of cormorants are perched in the piling warning us to stay away. S,ome “Coasties” are doing exercises today in the harbor. They are blasting around in a big orange, with a longitudinal black stripe, RHIB (Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat). For y'all that don't know, these are a fiberglass hull flanked by large inflated “air tubes”. The design is stable, light, fast and seaworthy. The inflated collar acts as a “life jacket”, ensuring that the vessel retains its buoyancy, even if the boat is taking on water.

We leave the cormorants and Coasties behind and head for the North Carolina State Port. To the north of the port is the high rise bridge that Hwy 70 crosses from Morehead City to Radio Island, and then on down past Beaufort. By-the-way, I mean no disrespect for the fine men and women serving in the US Coast Guard. “'Coasties' is more of a “term of endearment” that folks around here use when talking about them.

Now we are approaching the actual port. The first ship we come to is a giant, red cargo ship with hatches covering the cargo wells spreading down most of the length of the deck. A cabin and bridge towers high above the deck at the aft end. The ship is discharging water ballast in preparation for loading. The cargo will be phosphate from the phosphate mines a little farther up the coast in Aurora NC. But now she is riding high in the water with several feet of bottom paint exposed.

The next ship is another cargo ship about like the first one, but painted a grey color. We pass by just behind the stern and notice a pair of orange motorized life boats supported on launching rails---or whatever they should be called--- flanking the aft deck house. Painted across the transom is the name and home port. “YILDIZLAR 2”, Istanbul. Ships come from a long way just to carry on business at the port. Just down the seawall surrounding the loading area are a pair of harbor tugs, taking a well-earned rest.

Just beyond them is yet another red ship in the process of being loaded with more phosphate oar. I wonder if there is a reason for painting many of these ships red? It is surrounded by great, hulking cranes on the dock side, and on barges on the other side. The ore is transported from the mines to the port by railway. As we pass behind this ship, we are shocked to see a lifeboat hanging over the stern. It is in the launching device, pointing straight towards the rear, and suspended out over the water. What's more, it is angled down at a forty five degree angle! The launch would be VERY exciting. But what a shock when it hits the water. HANG ON TIGHT!

Leaving the port, we come next to the Morehead City waterfront. We pass behind Sugarloaf Island that protects the waterfront from the storm surges and violent waves that can be blown up in the harbor. Stores and restaurants line all along the waterfront. First comes a big, white, multi-storied condo building. There is a docking area, with a piling, with the ubiquitous cormorant guarding the “gated entrance – no street access” sign, whatever that means. No gates here. And obviously, no street access from the water, either! Across the channel that passes along the waterfront, we spy a dock and path that leads directly into the trees covering Sugarloaf Island. Guess I’d better see where it goes.

When we tied up at the dock, we were met by a seagull with a damaged wing. I could go right up to him and he didn’t seem to be afraid. I hope he’s able to find food. I expect he will. The dock is directly in front of the Morehead waterfront restaurants. Plenty of food scraps wind up in the water.

I'll have to leave Old Codger waiting not so patiently at the dock. He hates it when I go off exploring without him. A trail leads back into the dark and mysterious bowels of the island. Trees crowd all along the trail and overhang the well trodden path. I follow it well into the depths of the island. Soon, the trail splits and goes both ways towards the north and south ends of the island. The left goes a short distance and ends at some campsites. The other direction gets to the south end of the island and overlooks the ICW.

Scattered around a cleared sandy area at the end of the south trail, are little buildings that turn out to be toilets. Why in the world are they here? Is this a “bathroom community” for the campsites at the other end of the island? That doesn't seem reasonable—they are too far away. Maybe there used to be a camping area here. The roof has blown off of one of the toilets at some time in the past. I've got a serious question. How does the “honey wagon” get here to pump them out? A short distance away stands a metal storage unit. I wonder what’s in there? There are large groups of cactus plants all over around the cleared area. They seem to grow in rows. I haven't seen them anywhere else. Did someone plant them here? Well, the mysteries will just have to remain. I take a final look around before meandering back up the trail to the dock. Old Codger is probably getting anxious.

Back aboard, we motor slowly along the Morehead waterfront on our way back north. We pass one of the restaurants. It’s lunch time. Smells good! We pass another huge work barge with a monster crane towering high above piles of equipment and construction materials scattered all around the deck. It is being shoved by it's accompanying tug, heading for a construction job somewhere on the waterfront. We fall in behind and tag along as it continues up the Intracoastal waterway northward into the Newport river.

We take one last look south on the ICW. There’s the “high rise” across from the mainland to Emerald Isle on the outer banks. Our route takes us around the tip of Radio Island. There are giant concrete ramps descending into the water, and a number of big, black mooring buoys just out from them. I used to wonder what this was. It is all the way at the extreme end of Radio Island. At first I thought it was some kind of sea plane ramp, Then one day I saw a big LCAC (Landing Craft Air Cushion) pulled up there. As I watched, a whole mess of families piled aboard, then it fired up its engines and headed out the pass. I followed and discovered that it was taking families to visit their marines on an even bigger ocean going assault ship that carries the LCACs to be deployed at their destination. Truly an awesome sight!

Now we’ve rounded the bend and gone under the Hwy 70 high rise, and into the Newport River. Much of the river is very shallow and there are “pound nets” all over outside of the channel. Today, we see some men tending the nets from two big, open skiffs. Next we pass an unusual and interesting duck hunting blind on floats anchored in the flats. It is topped by a little shack-like shed, patched together from pieces of unpainted plywood. One side is open, with a “duck blind” woven from dried-up palm fronds.

As we enter Adams Creek where the ICW crosses land on its way to the Neuse River, we pass a couple of big marinas. True World Marine and Beaufort Marine Center. Large powerboats and yachts crowd the land and waterfront.

There had been another pass between the Newport and Neuse Rivers way back before the ICW. It was a little farther up the Newport and is called the Harlow Canal. It was originally dug by the native Indians so they could pass through with their canoes. Then, before the civil war, it was dug out deeper and wider by slaves so that boats could be pulled through by horses that would walk on a path beside the canal. It is still passable by small boats. I had been through the canal back when I lived here. If you look carefully, you can still see the rotting remains of loading wharfs projecting from the banks. These were for lumber camps back in the days when the area was famous the world over for its naval stores. These were products such as lumber, tar, and turpentine that was distilled from the sap of the long leaf pine trees that were grown on the numerous plantations that existed before the war. Two things brought an end to the naval stores industry shortly after the war. The advent of iron as a ship building material, and steam power replacing sail. The many plantations were deserted when the owners moved north. There is an annual non-powered boat race that goes through the canal. Kayaks and rowing craft can pass under the Hwy 101 bridge, and another bridge that cross the canal, but sailboats have to lower their masts to get under them.

We'll pass underneath the Hwy 101 bridge, and go a little way past it and then turn back. It’s getting close to time to anchor for the night. We’ll be heading home tomorrow morning, so we need to be fairly close to the ramp when we anchor. Brock Marine is another big boat yard at the foot of the bridge. Folks are allowed to work on their own boats in this marina. We have to wait for Miss Kayden to go under the bridge. She’s got to be the prettiest trawler I’ve ever seen. Her hull is painted in tones of light and dark blue, and she sports a gleaming white deck house, tower, and long out-riggers on either side.

As qw pass on out of the canal, we get a typical view of the homes along the banks of Adams Creek. We’re used to the giant houses on the shores of the lakes up where we cruise in the mountains. Down here, the homes are owned mostly by good ol’ fisher folks, and are modestly sized, but everything is neat and clean looking. I'm heading back out into the Newport River now. Next stop, our snug little cove for the night.

It's supper time. We tuck into a secluded looking little cove, and anchor for the night. This is typical for us. Old Codger loves this time of night, too. He's been working hard all day, ferrying me around.. As usual, I just pop open a can of “sketti”, Beefaroni, or maybe even beef stew. I tried to actually cook once. I first put on a pan of water to boil before adding the ingredients, but burned the water. I do love my little one burner propane stove. Just right to heat my can of whatever I brought along for supper.

I especially do love the Sunsets over the water. This one tonight was a bit unusual. There is a bright splash of intense white light showing in the clouds to the right of the actual Sunset. As I watch, a shaft of multi-colored light fades up through the clouds. It almost looks like a section of rainbow showing through the cloud cover. I’m glad I was here to see it.

There is another beautiful picture that greeted me when I woke up next morning. The Sun is just beginning to light up the sky for the day. Not as pretty as the Sunset, but still very majestic. To the right are the lights of the hangers at Michael J. Smith Field, which is the little airport in Beaufort. Originally, we were going to spend another day traveling up to Cedar Island, but conditions prevented it. I have decided to head back home a day early. Codger had seen about all I wanted him to see this trip. We’ll have to save that for next summer. At least I hope to make it back here for a warm weather cruise.

Before leaving, I want to tell you about a rather exciting thing that happened during the night. I was awakened by a terrifying noise emanating from somewhere close by! It sounded like it was coming from all around me! I hastily struggled out of my cozy sleeping bag to see if some monstrous thing was coming to crush my little craft. I looked all around but couldn’t see anything. The roaring noise now seemed to be coming from the shore side. As I turned to look that way, I caught sight of the silhouettes of two large military style helicopters landing in front of the lights of the airport. For some reason unknown to me, they were not displaying any kind of lights. They remained there for a few minutes with their turbine engines still wound up, then they took off together, still with no lights aboard, and headed off to the north.

But now, “Good morning, Glory!” We're greeted by Mr. Sun in all his glory! He's just peeking up above the horizon. A tinge of red is reflecting in the clouds close to the ground in the distance. There is a saying among boating folks, “Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning, red sky at night, sailor delight.” But today promises to be a fine, clear day. I guess I’ve gotten carried away with these Sunset and sunrise descriptions, but they sure are “purty”. (Southern for “pretty”, y’all.)

After a quick breakfast, we quickly up-anchored and motored around through the Highway 70 bridge and back into Taylor Creek. Once again, we pass the last range light that I told you about as we came through the inlet yesterday. As we pass through the length of Taylor Creek,we are all alone. We've beaten the crowd that will flood into Beaufort as the morning develops. I'm sure that the fisher folk have been up and gone long ago.

With that, I’ll leave you as we make our way back to the boat ramp that we left just a couple short days ago, and head back home to Hendersonville. I hope that you’ve enjoyed our little visit to the coast. I know that Old Codger and I did. We'll look forward to having you join us on our next adventure.

https://towndock.net/shippingnews/brother-sister-dory-story

August 19, 2019

 I left Point Judith Pond just at dawn. There was a light southwest wind. The current in the breach way would be at maximum flood at 8:45am. The sooner I could get to the breach way the less current I would have to sail against. If I couldn't make it out I would have to delay my departure a few hours until after the current eased. I was beginning my 225 nautical mile trip from Point Judith to Nantucket and back. I was already juggling currents and schedules.

My plan was to sail up Vineyard Sound between the Elizabeth Islands and Martha's Vineyard to Tarpaulin Cove. The next day  I  would sail around the northern end of Martha's Vineyard and into Nantucket Sound. Day three would be a sail across Nantucket Sound to the Island of Nantucket.

The currents in Vineyard Sound and Nantucket Sound often run 3 or 4 knots.  That may not sound like much just a brisk walking pace and to a power boat not of much consequence. In my sailboat without an engine that amount of current could easily bring me to a halt or push me back. When I reached the Point Judith breach way the current was rushing in and I wanted to sail out. Not quite at max but getting there. I was close hauled to the wind which was partially blocked by the buildings surrounding the gut. I snuck out by hugging the eddies that are close to the rock walls of the breach way. Once free of the breach way I could run before the wind on a course for Tarpaulin Cove on Naushon Island.

The tidal range around the Martha's Vineyard and southern Cape Cod is a fairly modest 3 to 4 feet. Yet the currents in and around the islands are strong. And sometimes the direction of those currents have not made sense to me. But now I think I am beginning to understand. The currents of Nantucket Sound are driven not only by the rising and falling of the tides in the area, they are driven primarily by changes in the ocean level in the Gulf of Maine and the Mid Atlantic Bight. Cape Cod divides these two areas that have dramatically different tidal ranges and times.

I found this neat Giff put together by someone at the University of Massachusetts School for Marine Science and Technology.

The arrows indicate direction and strength of the tidal current flow. At the same time water is flowing into the eastern end of Nantucket Sound water is flowing out between Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. The only explanation can be that water is sloshing back and forth around Cape Cod between the Gulf of Maine and the Mid Atlantic Bight. This makes navigating the area in a sailboat look like a nightmare. The Giff though is playing a six hour tide cycle in just a couple of seconds so it is not as bad as it looks. Still sailing between the islands can take a few hours and in that time the currents can reverse. You can start a crossing with the current in your favor but the tides are apt to turn before you reach your destination. Sailor beware. 

I want to bring up another issue, water depth. My boat draws about 4 feet of water with the centerboard down and only about 6 inches with the board all the way up. There are a lot of shoals in Nantucket Sound but most of them have a water depth greater than four feet. So you might think that water depth would not be much of a concern for me except for two other factors, currents and waves. Currents accelerate when they are forced over shoals. Ocean swells rise and steepen when they reach shallow water. Waves also rise and steepen when they meet an opposing current. In Nantucket Sound conditions can go from manageable to treacherous pretty quickly.

I had a smooth crossing from Point Judith to Tarpaulin Cove. The wind was modest and from abaft the beam. The only issue was some fog that would occasionally drop the visibility to around 1/2 mile. Numerous large cargo ships ply these same waters going in and out of Narragansett Bay and up Buzzards Bay to the Cape Cod canal. I kept a sharp eye out for them and tried to spend the minimum time in the marked shipping channels. The fog cleared by the time I made it to Cutty Hunk and I was having a peaceful sail up Vineyard Sound when the main sprit boom suddenly dropped to the deck.

I hove to and went forward to find the block holding the sprit to the main mast had chaffed through. I was able to repair it easily with some spare line, but it made me wonder if I should have checked the rigging more closely.

After a quiet night in Tarpaulin Cove I set off early. The current in Vineyard Sound would be running against me until 9am but I wanted to take advantage of the northwest breeze  which would fade later in the day. As I sailed out of the cove wing and wing and somewhat by the lee I crossed just astern of a sloop sailing close hauled. Her skipper called out to me that Skorpa looked like she was designed for that point of sail. With her sails spread wide before the wind she was cutting into the current with a bone in her teeth.

By the time I got to West Chop, one of the headlands on the northern side of Martha's Vineyard the wind had grown light and the tide had begun to flood strongly. The water was flowing under me almost as fast as I was moving so I had very little steerage. I was like a little stick floating down the river drifting between  West Chop and East Chop. One of the ferries  cutting across in front of me on its way into Vineyard Haven blasted her horn at a power boat that was in her way. The little power boat opened her throttle and sped out of the way. I had no such option. I was glad I wasn't a few minutes earlier or the ferry a few minites later.

The current was so strong and the ferry traffic so heavy I made a mental note to consider returning by another route. The wind had grown light and it was getting late in the day. I knew there was no way I could make it all the way to Nantucket so I started looking for a place to anchor for the night. I was not inclined to go into Edgartown, though I am sure it has plenty of yachts and moorings. Nearby is the shallow and secluded Cape Poge Bay on Chappaquiddick Island and that is where I headed.

 I found a snug little bay nestled up against a marsh and some barrier dunes not far from the Cape Poge Light.

I walked along the edge of the marsh in a couple of feet of water bringing my boat with me. Schools of minnows darted in the clear water fainting and turning hundreds moving as one.

Cape Poge Light sits on a lonely area of sand and woods looking out on Nantucket Sound.

I wanted an early start for the crossing to Nantucket so I breakfasted and dressed while it was still dark and I raised sail while a few stars were still in the sky. The weather forecast called for a chance of thunderstorms. I reasoned they most likely would come later in the day, so an early start would get me to Nantucket before they arrived. The sky was clear with a light wind from the southwest. Far off on the western horizon I could see frequent flashes of lightning.

After I rounded Cape Poge I could see there was very little ocean swell. I decided to run straight across the shoals between Chappaquiddick and Nantucket. As I approached Howes Shoal, Norton  Shoal and Long Shoal I could see  eddy lines and changes in the wave patterns. On my GPS I can access stations that give current speed and direction for a number of locations. I checked the station located in a channel between Long Shoal and Norton Shoal. I had a current of 1.4 knots flowing 114 degrees Magnetic, roughly along my course. Passing over the shoals I could at times see bottom but I am unsure of the depth  around 10 feet I would guess. I find it difficult to judge water depth because a variation in water clarity can throw off your estimate by a lot.

By the time I passed Tuckernuck Shoal my attention was drawn to the darkening sky off to the southwest. It was around 10 or 10:30am and I was still about 6 miles from Nantucket. I tuned into the marine weather forecast. They were announcing a severe thunderstorm warning for the area and urged all mariners to seek safe harbor. 

By 11am the clouds had darkened and lowered. They had a strange greenish color and were dramatically three dimensional. I abandoned my plan to reach Nantucket harbor before the storm hit but hoped I could reach within a mile or so of the shore where the water was about 20 feet deep and I could anchor and lower my sails and wait out the storm. 

Soon though the wind increased, rain began, and visibility dropped. Continuing to sail even if double reefed seemed out of the question. The only question was had I waited to long. Would I be able to get my sails down and secured before it was too late. 

I grabbed some ties, freed the main halyard and went forward to tie down the main. The wind was howling, the rain pouring, and the thunder roaring. Yikes. All the stories I had heard or read of small boats capsizing came to mind. I tied the main down as well and as quickly as I could and while I was up forward I grabbed the anchor and tossed it over. Then I hurried aft. Crew standing up in the bow can make a small sailboat more likely to capsize.

I marked my GPS track where I dropped my sails and again where I raised them and got underway after the storm had passed. I decided to lower the mizzen. I am not sure if this was a good idea. The mizzen was keeping the boat pointed into the wind and waves. With the mizzen down Skorpa began drifting broadside to the wind and waves. The anchor had gone out with 140 feet of line but there was no sign of it holding. I began to worry that it might suddenly catch and jerk the boat around. The anchor might become entangled preventing me from retrieving it, but there was no way I was going back up on the foredeck until the wind eased off. That was the hardest part I did not know how long the wind would continue to howl or if it would increase in speed. The waves began to build and some broke into the cockpit, I huddled on the windward side hoping my weight would help keep her from going over.

It was more than half an hour but less than an hour and the wind began to ease and the waves to diminish. I went forward and pulled in the anchor. It offered no resistance. Then I raised the mizzen and began straightening up the cockpit. I felt a little dazed. I was shivering. I could see a boat coming straight for me its bow high in the air. The SeaTow boat pulled right alongside and a young man asked if I was OK. I said I think so like I was not too sure. He flashed me a thumbs up sign and I gave him a thumbs up in return. He roared off. Just before the storm had hit I saw a few boats go racing by heading into the harbor. One of them must have let SeaTow know that a small sailboat had not made it in.

The wind had dropped to around 10 knots but I put two reefs in the sails. The sky was still dark off to the south and I just was not going to take any chances. I laid out some lunch so I could eat as I sailed towards Nantucket Harbor.

The lighthouse at Brant Point was a most welcome sight.

The deep water in Nantucket harbor is crowded with vessels of all kinds.

The waters of the harbor extend 4 miles to the northeast, but the average depth is around 4 feet.

Perfect for small boat sailing.

This photo is looking out the harbor entrance on Wednesday morning. I anchored Skorpa in close to the beach at Brant Point and hopped out for a walk around town.

There is a feeling of old money in the tree lined streets, sidewalks and roadways paved with brick and cobblestone and well preserved 19th century buildings.

Near the ferry docks the streets are crowded with tourists unloading from all over the world. Strangely similar but oddly different from 19th century Nantucket.

Thursday I sailed early one the first leg of my return to Point Judith. I sailed close by Tuckernuck Island and Muskeget Island to the Muskeget Channel. I met some stiff winds and chopping seas and sailed an hour or so under mizzen alone. When I reached the Muskeget Channel I had the choice of

sailing across the southern end of Martha's Vineyard or heading around Cape Poge and back the way I had come towards Vineyard Haven and Woods Hole and all the ferry traffic and strong currents.

The southern coast  of Martha's Vineyard has no harbors no good places to seek shelter. A weak front was coming through so there were dark skies and gusty winds. I decided to take my chances with the ferries and currents.

The winds grew light and seemed to shift to always be on my nose. But finally after a glorious sunset over Woods Hole I coasted into Tarpaulin Cove around 9pm.

By morning the front had cleared and a fresh breeze was blowing from the north. I had some near perfect sailing conditions for the last leg back to Point Judith. I took this video sailing southwest down Vineyard Sound. Off to starboard  Naushon Island, one of the Elizabeth Islands, is in the foreground and Cuttyhunk Island is in the distance. At the very beginning of the clip you get a glimpse of Gay Head on Martha's Vineyard off to port

Nantucket 2019a.kml

   I asked Old codger if he would like to go to the B and B messabout this year and he excitedly exclaimed YES! I guess I should explain to y’all that he is a modified Jessy 15 Skiff with an added cabin. I built him back in 2018 to cruise the mountain lakes where we live. Over time, he has developed a rather unusual personality. He likes to poke his nose into places that no reasonable boat would ever go. He gets excited anytime he gets to go with me to a watery adventure, so of course I knew he would jump at the chance! I’ll post some pictures for ya at the end of this little report, but, rather than tell ya about all the folks and boats that attended, I’ll just tell about our little adventures. We did greatly enjoy meeting new folks and renewing old acquaintances. And it’s always a great joy seeing the B and B crew every year. So now, let’s get on with the story.

   Before we begin, I’d better explain to my reader who doesn’t know what a messabout is.A messabout is  just what a messabout is. Hmmm---sounds odd put that way. Anyway, A messabout is an event where a group of people get together to discuss and "mess about" in boats. It comes from a story in Wind in the Willows where Rat says to Mole, “Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing — absolutely nothing — half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats. Simply messing... about in boats — or with boats. In or out of ’em, it doesn't matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that's the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don't; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you're always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you've done it there's always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you'd much better not.”

   We got there midafternoon and had time to cruise around a bit before time to settle in for the night. We motored over to where Amos and Walkabout were anchored across from the docks and I talked with Amos while Codger snuggled up close. About the time it was fixing to get dark, Mr. Hatsu took us off a respectful distance and we dropped anchor. Mr. Hatsu is our Tohatsu 15hp motor that accompanies us wherever we go. He’s actually the “mature” one and tries his best to keep us out of worse troubles than we usually do get into.

   It was a beautiful night. Moon at half phase lighting up the surrounding puffy clouds. There was a screech owl hollering in the trees, and a couple of Barred owls were asking each other, “Who-who?” I don’t think they ever did figure it out. It was kinda like they were saying, “Who dat saying who dat when I say who dat?”

   We listened to some old big band themes on cassettes that were recorded off of a PBS program several years ago. I found them in an old house that I had bought to flip. There are at least 30 or 40 cassettes. Being a big band fan, I really love these. Then we settled down to read from the book Princess by Joe Richards. It is my favorite book of all time. I named my first several boats Princess, my boat building company was Princess Marine, and I called my wife Princess. It is about a young man who in 1938, bought an old Friendship sloop and rebuilt her board for board. Then they set off together to find a desert island to inhabit. Along the way they experience many adventures together. World War Two intervenes and Joe goes off to do his duty ferrying tug boats all over the Pacific. After the war, he and Princess are re-united, but princess has fallen on hard times and needs to be rebuild all over again. Eventually they do find their island, but now it is not just the two of them. Joe has a wife and kids.

   Next morning we woke up to a heavy fog blanketing the landscape around us. Off in the distance, a bunch of crows were arguing with each other with their raucous voices. What do y’all think a flock of crows is called? Would you believe a “murder of crows”? It’s true! Listen to a bunch of them and you can almost believe they want to murder each other.

   While waiting for the fog to lift, we plugged in my I-pod and listened to the Angelic voice of Jackie Evancho while eating a pre-packaged slice of apple pie and drinking some iced fru-fru coffee. If you don’t know what fru-fru coffee is, you still won’t understand even if I try to tell you. By the time we finished that, the fog had lifted. Time to up anchor---“Anchors aweigh, my boys…” and head out to see what we could see before everyone else is up and about.

   “Let’s go up to Bayboro”, says my boat, and I agree. I had forgotten just how almost desolate the shores are after boating on the mountain lakes with rich folk houses lining the shores all the way around. Much of the ground along the river is boggy or too low to build on. In some cases, ditches or canals lead from the river up to a dock near the house. But it’s a feast-for-the-eyes of an old salt-in-the-veins guy like me! We stop by hurricane Harbor to look at trawlers and cruising boats along the dock. As we head up river we continue to poke into little bays with the homes of folks who have made their living on the water for generations. Many are abandoned with docks long collapsed into the murky water.

   Before long we come to our goal. The home of the once proud fishing fleet at Bayboro. Only a few trawlers are at the docs. The rest are at sea or in the sound seeking what’s left of the shrimp harvest. The ones remaining in harbor are undergoing repair. One in particular appears to be mostly rust and patches, and doesn’t look like anything has been done for her in years. The buildings are rotting and slipping into the creek. It looks like the final days of a dying way of life. Like the apocalypse has occurred. There is a bright spot at the end of the proverbial tunnel, though. At the end of the creek is a pretty little park where families can pic-nic and children play in the shadow of the ruined fleet.

   We turn and head back out of the creek to resume our journey. I notice that the Codger has a salty tear in his eye. Just before returning to the messabout, we poke into one more creek. Raccoon creek. We travel to the end and are confronted with a mystery. At the end of the creek where it is crossed by Hwy 304 is a big house falling into ruin. But it appears to be a new, unfinished construction. Siding falling off, windows missing or broken. But the roof looks like new! Dock fallen in just like the ones at old abandoned homes. But here is the mystery. The grass was mowed! I determined to ask about it later. Back at the messabout I did ask and discovered that a permit had been issued for the home to be built. It was adjacent to a property where a new park was to be built. The contractor was tossing all his construction debris onto the park property. He was warned several times to “clean up his act” but refused, so the permit was rescinded. The mown grass was where the park will be built.

   Old codger rested at the landing while I enjoyed a few hours talking boats, boating, politics, faith, and anything else that came up. Graham gave an informative talk on proper rigging and handling of his boats. But by midafternoon e Codger was getting impatient to get back to his journey. He wanted to get out to the Pamlico Sound and travel around to either the Neuse or Pamlico River and find a little hidden cove for the night. As you’ll see, we won’t quite make it that far.

   We set out to make our way out the river, checking out the sights along the way. The further we went, the newer and nicer the homes were. Codger really didn’t want me to tell you this one, but we had a bit of adventure along the way. As I told you at the beginning of this narrative, he like to poke his nose in where it doesn’t belong. He wanted to look into one more little creek. We were winding away along when I spied a man standing on a dock waving at us. I waved back when Codger yells out, “I’ve caught me a BIG_UN!” Sure enough, I look back to see a fishing line sparkling in the Sun leading from Mr. Hatsu’s foot all the way back to the dock! I instantly throw Hatsu into neutral and shut him off. Much apologizing comes next with the explanation that, “I didn’t see your line!” The man hollers back, “No big deal.” I push the button to lift the foot out of the water to try to untangle the line. Fortunately it isn’t around the prop, but it is wrapped around the “Doel Fin” which is an add-on hydrofoil to help plane the boat at low speeds. The hook. With a minnow head still attached is imbedded in the plastic fin. I try as best as I can, but leaning over the transom, I can’t get a good handle on the situation.

   I call out to the kindly man, “do ya think the line is strong enough to pull us into the dock? Maybe you can reach better from there. “Sure, it’s 50# test line. Been on that old reel for years and never broke. I’ll reel ya in. hang on.” With that he rares back and commences reeling. Slowly but surely we are pulled in. Along the way we are talking and joking. “Guess you’ll have a story to tell your buddies about the biggest one ya ever caught.” “Yep something to brag about for sure!” he replies. When we get there, he reaches over and easily unwraps the mess. By now I’ve found out that the man’s name is Mr. Wilkenson, who says, “It’ll be a good story, but I guess I’ll haveta toss ya back in”. “Worst part is that I’ve lost the fish head, and those dang things are hard to come by.” With that, codger and I sheepishly leave to continue our trip.

   Looking at Google Earth now as I write this, I’m fascinated by some of the names I see. Parch Corn Bay, Poorhouse Point, Graveyard Point, Box Point, Petty Point, Wise Point, Blossom Pond Creek, Deadman Point, No Jacket Creek, Dump Creek. I wonder about the story behind these names.

   Heading out toward the mouth of the Bay River, we pass Vandamere Docks and the fleet. Thankfully, things look much better here, buildings in good repair and trawlers in ship-shape condition, festooned with nets ready for a good haul. As we continue, we pass underwater plots that are leased to grow oysters. The signs on pilings say “Shellfish Bottom Lease #_____”. And “WARNING-submerged gear – navigate around all markers”. Each piling has a sentinel perched on top in the form of a sea gull or cormorant. Finally we pass by marker number four with several cormorants on guard.

    I’m reminded of my years as a kid growing up in Florida. My parents had a little summer cottage on a Master’s Bayou off of Tampa Bay. We kids spent our days summer vacation days swimming and boating on the water there. The channel in from the bay had channel markers, and were also guarded by cormorants. We called them “black ducks” or “gooney birds”. Gooney birds differ from other kinds of water fowl in that their feathers are not oily and become saturated with water making it difficult to fly. The birds solve that problem by spreading their wings in the breeze after several dives while sitting on pilings, branches, or anywhere they can find a perch.

   Kids being kids, we found our fun where we could. Some of the most fun was trying to chase the gooneys off their perches and chase them until they dove into the water. They would try to fly off of the pole, trying to gain altitude, but, because of their waterlogged feathers, they would be unsuccessful. They’d get lower and lower until they would be running across the surface while still flapping their wings. Finally, as we got too close for comfort, they would dive and submerge. I later was told by a marine patrol officer that this running behavior was called “didapping”. Before y’all get all huffy with me about what we did, let me assure you that no birds were ever harmed by us chasing them!

   By now the Sun was low in the sky, and darkness was spreading across the waters. Time to find a snug place to drop anchor. I conferred with Old Codger, and he suggested settling in behind Maw Point in a little cove called Fisherman Bay. Looked good to me, so that’s what we did. We dropped anchor in a protected spot, surrounded by Spartina grass growing on the mud banks. After a supper of Chow Mein from a “just add boiling water” meal, we settled in for the night. By now the Sun had dipped below the horizon after putting on a spectacular show of red and yellow colors. I love watching the channel marker lights sparkling out in the Pamlico Sound. The moon beams were reflecting on the rippling water.

    It would have been perfect except that the black flies and mosquitoes settled in, too. The files came in formation and attacked with vehemence! The skeeters swarmed looking for a place to settle and sink their proboscises! OWWW! But, I had a solution! I had been advised in a boating forum about a product called Buggins Insect Repellant. I retrieved it from the shelf inside the companionway and liberally sprayed it on. It was MAGIC! The black flies dispersed instantly, and the skeeters backed off, but continued circling hopefully, like old-west Indians circling a wagon train. To get away from their high pithed whine, I retreated below and skootched down into my soft sleeping bag.

   Codger gently rocked me as I looked out the windows at the channel lights. The rocking made them appear to be rising and falling like fireflies. The mood was dancing through the clear panel in Codger’s forward hatch. I listened to my favorite big band cassettes and read from Princess for a while waiting for sleep to come. Before long the skeeters made me aware of their continued presence with their annoying whining. Occasionally one would come in for a strike and ricochet off of whatever patch of bare flesh that he could find. The Buggins was doing its job, but the ravenous insects kept trying. Did you know that folks down here call the mosquito the state bird?

   By nine o’clock, I had had enough. I conferred with Codger and Mr. Hatsu and by consensus we decided to move back up river away from the Spartina marshes. Mr. Hatsu dutifully took us back in, leaving the pesky bugs behind, to finally anchor along the mainland somewhere between Deadman Point and Sand Point. There is a road there called Airstrip Road. I wonder what that is all about. No airplanes in sight. After reading some more, I drifted off in delicious, skeeter-free slumber.

   Next morning I woke up rocking and rolling in the wind. Codger was singing the old song to himself, Rain Drops Are falling On My Head. It was overcast, cool, and breezy. A cold front had moved in during the night. It looked like it was going to be one of those all day “We’ll let you know when we’re done” rain events. You know what I mean. Being fair weather boater, the pitter-patter of rain on my head just spoils the fun. I suppose I should be thankful for the bugs that had chased us in. It would have been an uncomfortable slog in the wind and rain.

    I called my wife on the cell phone and asked her to look up the forecast for me. She informed me that it would be raining all day. You’d think an old boat guy like me would have some way to keep up with the forecast myself. I used to have a handheld V.H.S. radio with a weather channel. Also a little weather radio. Over the years they had died and never been replaced. This old codger is too cheap to part with any of the limited boating budget to buy new ones.

   By now the rain had slacked off to a light sprinkle, so we decided to head back to our spot across from the dock where the messabout was centered. I was prepared to spend the day reading and listening to my music. But, doggone if the rain hadn’t stopped completely by the time we got there. I tied up the Codger at the landing and wandered over to where my friends were gathered on the dock talking. Some were even casting off to sail. Would you believe that it didn’t rain another drop all day?! It sure was a delight to talk with all my friends. These are my kind of folks.

   Finally, I drug myself away, climbed back aboard, and headed across the creek to anchor for the night. Next morning it would be time to part from the gang for another year. So ends the saga of Old Codger’s visit to a messabout.

A DAY ON THE GREEN RIVER

   It is a beautiful, calm, relaxing day on the river. I’m glad you decided to come along with me. Let’s go back to the beginning and see what we’ve experienced. We pulled up to the ramp on Lake Adger about noon and I ate my lunch of homemade tomato soup as we contemplated launching our Happy Hour kayak that I recently finished building. It’s a comfortable Fall day with the temperature in the low sixties. We had the ramp all to ourselves except for one lonely truck and trailer in the parking lot. The first thing we noticed was that the water level was about two feet below normal. This end of the lake is slowly silting in and there is only a narrow channel to get from the ramp to the deep part of the lake.

   We unload the boat and set it at the water’s edge. The water at the ramp is very dirty and the color of coffee and creamer. Visibility is only a few inches. We gingerly climb in and plop down into our comfy bass boat seat. My old bottom cannot abide by hard seats any more. As we begin to paddle away from the ramp, we here a GRONK-GRONK and see old Long Legs, a great blue heron, lift off and flap across the mud flat, expressing his displeasure at our disturbing his lunch. Off on the other side of the mud bank is a snowy egret. He’s standing on one leg in a pool of shallow water, diligently searching for some tasty morsel. He is too far away to be concerned with us.

   We skirt the edge of the mud flats, following the channel until we get into the lake, then turn and head for where the Green River flows into the lake. Paddling as far as we can into the river is our goal for the day. The water is getting shallower as we approach the river. Do you think we’ll make it? I guess we’ll know soon enough. We stir up billowing clouds of mud behind us as we dip our paddle into the shallow water. It’s interesting looking down into the water, that is now beginning to clear from the fresh flow from the river. Lots of stuff litters the bottom, leaves, tree limbs and trunks, as well as old cans, bottles, even a big piece of corrugated plastic pipe about two feet in diameter. It’s long and doesn’t float. I wonder where it came from? Some kind of drain pipe leading into the lake? There are streams of bubbles issuing up from rotting vegetation buried in the mud. Look, over there. A school of large fish. And on the other side, a bunch of “water skater” bugs crowding each other as they skim across the surface, supported solely by surface tension.

   Now we’re moving into the actual river. There is very little current, but what there is continues to clear up the water. We can see the bottom everywhere now which is changing from sticky muck to cleaner, tan colored sand. There are still patches of leaves piled in to brown drifts, as well as tree trunks and branches that have taken up residence mostly along the sides in the slower water. The center is mostly clear, so we stay half way between the exposed sand banks along both shores. Soon we’ll have to stay close to the side with the deeper water. We have learned that when the river bends, the currant flow gouges out a channel along the outside of the bend.

   The landscape is changing now from low mud banks to crowded woods with fallen trees projecting into the water. Earlier this year there was a lot of rains which raised the level of the river, and increased the velocity of the flow, which washed out the banks and toppled many trees. Then we had a long dry spell so the level dropped, stranding the trees where they fell. Maybe next spring they will be washed out into the lake with the increased water that always flows into the rivers, and off of the land as the winter snow melts. Boaters will need to be aware of these floating hazards to navigation. There is a gentle breeze is picking up a little and rustling the dry leaves in the trees. The warm days and dry weather is causing the leaves to dry out and fall off before they have a chance to turn colors. But it’s quiet enough to hear the crickets chirping, and birds singing in the trees. There’s an occasional splash of a fish jumping in the deeper water.

   One of the things I look for on these paddling excursions is to observe turtles on logs or in the water. It’s probably too cold for them today. So far we haven’t seen any. Hey! What’s that little brown thing swimming on the water’s surface over there? Let’s go see. Oh, it looks like a little salamander. Let’s paddle over and see if we can catch it. I reach down and easily pick it up in my hand. He sits unperturbed on my palm as I examine it. It’s a red spotted newt juvenile. Juveniles, also called red efts, are bright orange in coloration. They have rows of black-bordered red spots that run ventrally along either side of their body. I lower my hand back into the water, and he sits for a couple of seconds before calmly swimming away.

   We paddle on for awhile observing our surroundings. LOOK, up ahead. Is that a turtle on that fallen tree up ahead? We paddle slowly, trying to get close enough to see him clearly. We are able to get close enough to identify him as a male eastern river cooter. The males have longer claws on their front flippers. The girl cooters find that attractive. Up in the mountains, the river cooter is the only large aquatic turtle we have. Well, except for the snapping turtle. He slides off of the log with a “ker-plop” as we bet closer. That was a treat. Maybe we’ll see more later. We’re approaching a wide spot where the old river channel used to go. Last time I was here, there was one particular log with several cooters lined up head to tail. I wonder if they’ll still be there.

  Meanwhile, let’s just keep heading up river and see what we can see. A few trees are beginning to get there fall colors. Maybe enough have survived the heat and dryness to give us a pretty fall after all. As we make our way through a bend in----WHAT WAS THAT?! A loud crash sounds from the shore just ahead of us. Look, there it is. A family of three deer have been startled and are scrambling up the bank through the underbrush! Now THAT’S a beautiful sight. One of the experiences we are hoping for on our expeditions. Let’s follow along as quietly as we can and see if they will venture back to the water’s edge.

   Well, we have reached the spot of the old river path, and we haven’t caught sight of the deer again. I guess they’ve just remained back in the woods. And there is the “cooter log”, but no turtles on it today. It’s obvious why. With the lake and river level lower, the log is sitting high and dry. I wonder if there is enough water still in the old river channel to paddle back to the lake? From the lake side, I had looked over this way and could see what looked like a shallow layer of water at this point. Maybe we’ll try to leave the river by this path, but for now, there is still a long way to get up river.

  We turn our kayak around and make our way back into the river. It’s getting shallower and the flow is getting faster. How much farther will we be able to go before we can’t paddle any farther? Let’s head over to the deeper water along the outside of the bend. Maybe those deer are still ahead and we may get another chance to see them up close if we are careful. There is a lot of trees and brush all across the river’s path now. We have to dodge around it all, while at the same time trying to find water deep enough to not drag bottom. Occasionally we bump bottom on a rise in the bottom and have to “pole” our way past by pushing our paddle against the sandy river bed.

  Look up there! On that fallen tree. Aren’t those turtles? Yes. Three of them. Quietly, trying not to splash with our paddles, we approach the wary cooters. Awww, there they go. First one, then another. But one is still staying in his place. Careful now. Let’s see if he’s brave enough to get close. He’s stretching his neck out watching us. Sometimes during summer when it’s hot, you can almost get near enough to touch them. But not this time. There he goes. At least we know they are here. Maybe we’ll see more.

   We maneuver around the log and continue to pick our way up stream. There’s the bridge up ahead. It’s the one that we crossed on our way to the launch ramp. The stream is almost blocked be debris that have washed down the river and been trapped by the bridge pilings. We are able to make our way under. As we do, we look overhead to see if there are any barn swallow nests attached to the bridge structure. Most of the bridges do have them, but, surprisingly, there are none here. I wonder why? I don’t see any “no nesting” signs. So we come out on the other side and continue dodging the obstructions. The river is getting shallower and faster, but we are OK for now. The river narrows as we round another bend. Plenty of water right here anyway, and look, there are a couple more turtles, but they beat a hasty retreat before we can get close. Soon, the river bed widens again. It’s much harder finding a deep enough path around the fallen trees, and we have to keep paddling constantly to move forward against the current. It’s time to give up and turn towards home.

  Let’s just quit paddling and drift with the quiet flow. Maybe we can sneak up on some other unsuspecting wild life. It’s pleasant to just sit and rest our shoulders. We do have to guide our craft around the same roadblocks we negotiated on our way upstream, but for the most part we can just take it easy and enjoy the trip. We soon float under the bridge, often dragging bottom and pushing across the barely submerged sand bars. Not much to report on our return trip. LOOK UP AHEAD! Over on the left bank. It’s those same deer again! Now they are on the other side of the river. They crossed the shallow stream after we passed them on our way up the river. They haven’t seen us. Maybe we can get really close. Be still as we drift, and I’ll tell you a little story about an experience that happened to me a few years ago.

   It was on the Neuse River own near Havelock where I used to live. I was in a skiff about half way across the river when I saw something moving through the water up ahead. As I get closer, I see what appears to be a stag deer swimming. But the river is three miles across at that point! What’s he doing way out here? He seems to be struggling as I draw closer to him. Maybe I’d better help! I motor up to him and reach over and grab his antler, then hold on to him and head towards the nearest shore. I do my best to hold his head above water so he can breathe. He’s in distress but I have to save him! He soon stops thrashing and I think all’s well, but then get suspicious. Somethings wrong. He’s not moving at all! I stop and pull him up closer. He’s DEAD! OH NO! What have I done? All I can do now is let him go and head on to where I had been going.

   Later, I have a chance to talk to some folks that tell me that it is pretty common for deer that are being chased by hunting dogs to swim across the river to escape them. If I’d have left him alone, he’d have been fine. I don’t know if he drowned, or died of fright, but I learned a hard lesson that day. God created the creatures with the instinct to know how to survive, and it is better to give them that chance that to try to interfere.

   By now we have drifted down on the deer, but they see us and move away from the water and into the woods again. I guess they’ll just keep heading up stream and return to the river’s edge after we pass. Nothing for us to do but continue drifting. Maybe we’ll at least encounter more turtles. Listen. That sounds like a pileated woodpecker! “Graack-grack” he calls out. Then Tap-tap-tap as he digs into the tree to get to his lunch. But where is he? He’s close. In one of those trees just across the stream from us. Maybe we can catch a glimpse as we float past. YES! There he is! We can just make him out as he moves around that dead tree. They mate for life and stay close together.  Maybe his mate is near, but we don’t see or hear her. We pass on by, and soon are beyond them. We are floating past a big root ball of a fallen tree, when CRASH-SPLASH. It’s those same deer again! They turned back downstream and were once again at the water’s edge just on the other side of the tree we were passing. We snuck up on them and startled them. And US! They’re gone now. I guess that’s the last we’ll see of them.

   Now we are back at the spot where the old main channel used to be. Let’s give it a try. So far, so good. It’s getting shallower and muddier. There’s Long Legs and his egret buddy waiting for us. They follow us with beady eyes, but no attempt to fly off as we paddle by no more than 20 feet away. I guess they’ve deemed us safe. So, now we’ll load up and head back home, carrying some good memories of a pleasant afternoon paddle on the Green River. Thanks for coming along. See you next trip.

(The following is copied from the Tennessee Valley Website)

At more than 1,900 feet above sea level, Watauga holds the distinction of being the highest reservoir in the Tennessee River system. The reservoir is managed for many uses, including flood damage reduction, power generation, water quality and aquatic ecology.

Surrounded by the Cherokee National Forest and flanked by the Appalachian Mountains, Watauga Reservoir is one of the most scenic in the Tennessee River watershed. It offers access to the Appalachian Trail.

Below Watauga Dam is a wildlife observation area where visitors have a chance to view unique species of wintering waterfowl, including buffleheads, mallards, American black ducks, gadwalls, ring-necked ducks, lesser scaups and other ducks including canvasbacks, redheads and scoters.

Watauga: Facts + Figures

• Construction of Watauga Dam began in early 1942 but was curtailed later that year in favor of other wartime building efforts. Work resumed in 1946, and the dam was completed in 1948.

   

• Watauga Dam is 318 feet high and extends 900 feet across the Watauga River.

   

• Watauga Dam is a hydroelectric facility. It has two generating units with a summer net dependable capacity of 63 megawatts. Net dependable capacity is the amount of power a dam can produce on an average day, minus the electricity used by the dam itself.

   

• In a year with normal rainfall, the water level in the reservoir varies about 11 feet from summer to winter to provide for seasonal flood storage.

   

• Watauga has a flood-storage capacity of 152,800 acre-feet.

   

It is just under a two hour drive from home to the launching area. We pulled up to the Rat Branch access area at about 11AM for an overnight excursion to check out the lake for a future extended cruise. Old Codger was all excited to see the rats, but they must have been away playing with the cats. We were the only ones launching except for a couple of folks with their kayaks, and soon found that we were to be almost alone on the lake. Just the way we like it. There were hundreds of boats parked in various marinas around the lake though. Maybe some of them actually get away from the dock occasionally. Most of them were ski type boats or pontoon boats, but many were larger cruising sail boats, power boats and house boats. You’ll see a few as we go through the pictures. I wonder how many of these big-uns get used, I once read in a book about small boat cruising that boats are used in an inverse proportion of their size. In words that even I can understand, the bigger they are, the less they are used.

I tried to find a lake map to order on-line, but couldn’t, so we just had navigate with the “fake-it-til-ya-make-it” method. We did ok, but did manage to miss a turn into the upper part of the lake. Guess it’ll still be there when we come back again.

Let’s move on to our “picture essay”.

We chose Rat Branch from the several ramps around the lake as it seemed the most secure to leave the truck and trailer. It’s right on Hwy 321 and fishermen seemed to be around even at night to keep an eye on things. It has a bathroom, although it was closed for maintenance. A crew was pouring new concrete side walks around it. The parking fee is $2.00 per day. You put the cash in an envelope, tear off a tag that you hang on your mirror, and drop the envelope in a deposit box.

This is the Watauga dam. It’s just across the lake from Rat Branch.

This next picture is of the Watauga Point Recreation area just a short way up-lake from the launch area. It’s a beautiful to pic-nic, hike, fish, or just hang out.

The lake has these markers at strategic locations around the lake. If only we had a chart…

There were lots of these guys around the lake. Cormorants. As a kid growing up in Florida, we called them “gooney birds”. They don’t have oil in their feathers like other water birds, so they would have to sit on a piling or branch for awhile with their wings spread so their feathers would dry out. We took great delight in chasing them off of their perch with our boat, and watching them run across the water building up enough speed to take off. We would chase them trying to catch up to them, but never could quite reach them. They would finally give up and dive. Hey, we would never have intentionally run one over, so don’t look at me in that tone of voice! One day, a marine patrol officer gave a ticket to one of my friends who was racing around in a little boat acting crazy. He said the ticket was for “di-dapping”. He said that was what it was called when a water bird would run across the water taking off. Hmmm, sounds like a clever name for a little hydroplane type of boat. “Di-dapper”

One of several marinas around the lake.

These are cozy little cottages right on the water. I don’t know if they are rental units, or if folks own them. Notice the floating tire breakwater across the entrance to the marina.

This sign is pointing to the marina.

I thought this was pretty cool with the trees growing out of the water across to a little island. Old Codger said, “Don’t go through there!” “I’ll break my widdle prop!” He must think I’m pretty dumb. Actually, I DO sometimes go where “no man has gone before”.

These next are just some views as we head down the lake, Mountains are around us on all sides. There are very few houses on the lake.

Just another marina. I like to poke into the dock areas to see the boats. I’m always looking for something unusual. Rarely find it.

There are lots of interesting coves and creeks that we can’t get into. I’m building a little kayak right now that I can tow behind the Codger just to get into these places. It’s a “Happy Hour Fishing Kayak” with plans from Duckworks.

This is the Hwy 67 Bridge that crosses about half way up the lake.

Another one of those interesting creeks that Codger won’t fit into.

Every once in awhile, you can find an interesting boat tucked up into an isolated little cove. A wooden ketch.

Just past the ketch was this cabin perched on “cliff”. It appears to be abandoned. On closer inspection, you can see weeds and vines snaking their way around it.

I couldn’t resist a picture of these houses. There is a wide variety of homes sprinkled here and there around the shore line. Most of the lake is within the Cherokee National Forest. I’ll pop a few more house pictures in as we tour the lake, just to show you the variety.

This little floating “house” was definitely abandoned with a collapsed dock next to it. It was at the end of a cove that was filled with fallen trees and not accessible by boat. Happy Hour sure woulda been nice here.

Another purty house in a great location. The term “location-location-location” certainly fits here. Oh, for y’all new to our stories and posts, “purty” is how we Southern folks say “pretty”.

You pass everything from mobile homes, RVs, home built cabins, on up to million dollar houses as you follow the shoreline.

Even a church overlooking the lake. There’s a large cemetery right next to the church. I wonder if the Pastor has to worry about his flock looking out over the lake and dreaming of that big lunker that got away last time rather than listening to his exhortations. But a peaceful view for the dearly departed as they wait for the final resurrection.

I just thought this was interesting. Great view and the young-uns can jump right off of the railing into deep water.

We’re about to enter where the Watauga River flows into the lake. There’s a bridge to go under and a marina and campground right as you enter the river. Most of the campgrounds only have long term camping.

We went through this forest of stumps poking their heads above the water. Codger whined and complained the whole way. What a wuss! Actually, as we were part way through, we saw another boat coming out over by the other side. Turns out that there is deep water there.

We’re almost at the end where the river flows in.

This one is looking back from where we came in.

The world is on edge here.

Codger wanted to work his way through the rocks and bars to get up to where the river enters the lake. That was surprising as he usually refuses to go into places like this. We were hoping for a water fall, but there is only what is known as a “cascade”. Sure is purty.

Interesting rock formation split by a mud slide as we pass under the bridge on the way back out into the lake.

Back on the main part of the lake. Somehow we got lost here and went into another branch of the lake rather than continuing up the main part. After getting home from the trip, I was able to find a source for a lake map. NEXT time, we’ll know where we’re going. By-the-way, for you salt water types, what y’all call “charts” are called maps for these lakes.

We’re approaching the town of Butler. The original town is buried at the bottom of the lake. Scuba divers have a great time exploring these old towns. Seems like this is very common in all of the larger power generation and flood control lakes here in the Appalachians.

Another big marina.

At about 5pm, we like to settle in for the night in a snug little cove. We listen to big band and doo-wop music and read until we get sleepy. As I was heating my can of  ravioli for supper, these ducks came over begging. One of them would come almost to my fingers as I held out bits of ravioli. They liked it!

I had come almost all the way back to the Rat Branch Access Area to a little protected cove to spend the night. There was a little marina right across from us. I couldn’t resist trying to get a picture of the moon reflecting on the water and the lights of the marina.

Next morning, we were in the clouds. We call this phenomena “smoke on the mountain”.

Before going to the ramp, we continued into the end of the lake. The ramp is just before the end. On the way back to the ramp, we passes the public swimming area. Just beyond this is Rat Branch.

And so ends our short cruise on beautiful Lake Watauga. We’re already making plans to come back. Just gotta save some money for gas for the Red Beast (Our Nissan truck gas-guzzler.) It cost $60 round trip for gas. Old Codger only burned about 4 gallons during the whole cruise.

"The Question". It seems so witty to those who haven’t heard it dozens of times. Here’s a test: you are a veteran boat builder if you can reveal, Jeopardy style, "The Question" for these answers:

•      Because I wanted to.
•      I had all this extra marine plywood, and don’t know any marines.
•      God told me there’s going to be a flood.

I was never really sure how to answer "The Question". But now I know.

I was dreading "The Question" when the family came up during Christmas. Wouldn’t you know it, the year its our turn to host Christmas, I’m involved in a boat building project.

There’s the usual mix of creativity in the family. Even a restored boat in one brother’s garage. A sister who is a true-to-life artist (which I define as sculpting things like sexy mermaids in bas relief, and getting paid for it.) Others in the family take art lessons, and produce stuff that looks to my untrained eye as actually approaching art, the critics be damned. Another brother who turns lumps of clay into useful art.

And there’s me. I’m a middle manager, on the lowest rung of the corporate ladder. I read self help books, for heaven’s sake. I was the brother who cried when a spider ran across his hand, rather than picking it up and playing with it just to scare the girls.

But it comes natural for the rest of the family. The creative ones. My mother is a writer, with two published books, and my father was a carpenter. Now if you want to impress people, you say that your father was "in construction." But I never had the urge to inflate what my father did. He built things. He built the house I lived in for the first 13 years of my life. He built John Wayne’s house, and did the finish work inside Raquel Welch’s apartment (his best line that year: "If she keeps snubbing me, I’ll never sleep with her.")  I can drive around southern California, and see things my dad built. The matched grain hardwood ceiling in the church. The classroom where tomorrow’s leaders toss spitballs and tease the girls. Stores. Houses. Movie studios. Things, real things.

Dad was quiet, and always in control. There was a presence about him, an air of authority, that made him seem like a giant to me. But he was never mean. And even when I reached my teens and realized he was not perfect, I always admired the man he was. I never feared becoming "just like my old man" because, to be honest, I pray that I can be just a little bit like him. And worry that I cannot.

Dad’s old now, and not doing too well.  Now he’s small, and frail, and at times I’m not sure he knows who we are. He spends three hours, three days a week with his blood circulating through a machine because his body can’t clean it. And the rest of the time is spent mostly sitting, watching TV, reading or looking out the window.

When Dad got a mix of drugs that confused his mind, we thought it had gone for good. Yesterday was mixed up with today, and one moment he was back on the beach at Normandy and the next, living in the one story house across the street. "You live here now, Granddad," my daughter would say. He would accept it, and go back to the TV, unsure why the old woman was saying she was his wife when he remembered her as young, and blond, and giggling, instead of looking so sad.

We were afraid that he would find his souvenirs from the war, and think he was back on the bridge at Ramagen, and harm himself or others. They were carried away when he wasn’t looking. In his shop, a thousand dangers leapt up at us, eager to injure someone who remembered where a switch was, but not where the spinning blade was. I went through it and disabled the machines that helped him build the things, the real things everywhere, that remind me of the man he was.

Removing the v-belt from the jointer, I remembered the v-belt story: my brother got his finger stuck between the pulley and the belt. With quiet determination, Dad tried to gently move the pulley back, then forward, to free his finger. Met with yelps at every effort, my father turned to one of us and said, "go get a knife." A gasp, then "are you going to cut off his finger?" prompted a greater yelp from the owner of the stuck finger. "No, I’m not going to cut off his finger." We all waited in horrible anticipation until our father cut the BELT, not the finger! Why did we think this quiet, gentle man would cut off a finger? We should have known he would never hurt us.

The machines had been silent for years, but there was a finality to disabling them. Like severing a vital link between man and machine, each v-belt removed, or plug cut off seemed to violate everything his life had meant. But it had to be done.

The mix of medicines changed, and he came back to us. Not all the way. But enough for us to count our blessings once again.

My father came up for Christmas. He couldn’t remember if he had been in our house before, but if he had, it faced the other way. He had built one facing that way before. He asked if the light hanging from the chain had always been there. But mostly, he was quiet and sat among us.

"Frank’s building a boat! You’re kidding!" I heard several in the family exclaim.  My wife ratted me out. We filed out to the garage for me to take my punishment. And then "The Question". I froze with that scared little brother look, and then we were all laughing. "Can you get it out of here?" and we shared another story, the famous bet about a day sailer my uncle built in 1949. It was too wide for the 30" shed door. The neighborhood turned out when it was finished to share in his folly, but he turned the boat sideways, and it slid out the door easily. That’s how he got the money for the sails.

Still more good-natured ribbing, "Will it float?" and more laughter. I noticed my dad was quiet again, running his hand along the top rub rail. He stepped back and considered the majestic sweep of the sheer, and then moved forward to touch the cabin side. I had the sense that he saw more than wood and screws as the rest of us continued our chatter. The stories finally became quiet, and we started back into the house.

My father lingered a bit, touched the rub rail again, and looked me square in the eye. We were alone in the garage, my father, my boat and me. He said "Its good that you build a boat. I never built a boat."

I have an answer now. It almost sounds disrespectful, but its not. You can only build so many things in one life, even if you are a giant. Seeing someone build something you did not is not a bad thing. It is a good thing. For the true giants build even after the machines are quiet, and their hands are still. Its just that what they continue to build is people, not things.

That day, I realized my father never stopped building.

"The Question" doesn’t stump me anymore.  I know my answer to "The Question" now. You see, my father never built a boat.

After lunch we went back to Twelve Mille Recreation area to launch. There was a $5 day use fee. Neither one of us had $5. The way it works is to put the money in an envelope and drop it in a “box”. Then you hang a tag that you tear off of the envelope on your mirror. Oh well, let’s try “plan-B”. There was another public ramp nearby, Seneca Creek. Same deal! Ok, let’s head out of town and go to a little ramp further up the Keowee River, closer to the dam. No way there would be a fee there. We go to ramps on Lake Keowee all the time without use fees, so surely this would be the same. On the way, Debbie suggested we stop for change---just in Case. Knowing that she’s usually right about these things, we stopped at a gas station for change from a $20. We pulled into a little middle-of-nowhere boating access called Lawrence Bridge. Good thing Debbie had the good sense to suggest getting change! Same $5 fee here. These ramps are all managed by the US Core of Engineers. The ones we go to on Keowee are managed by Duke Energy. All three ramps that we had looked at were similar. No dock at the ramp. The dock was way off to the side, with a walkway to get there. No decent place to pull the boat up on shore while parking. Bathrooms way off away from the ramp. “Boo!” to the Core. Now I’ll really appreciate Duke.

Here is the ramp. The dock is out of the picture to the left.

Right across from the ramp is part of a structure sticking out of the water I don’t know what it is, but guess it’s the top of a building that was submerged when the lake was filled. Maybe a church.

From the ramp, we had to go under a bridge to head upriver to see the dam.  We made it under with a few inches between our Bimini top and the bottom of the bridge.

We enjoyed the scenery on the way up-river on the way to the dam. We finally came to a little dam with some ruins off to the side. Surely this couldn’t be the Keowee dam! It’s a mystery! When we got home, I went to Google Earth to find out what’s up. As it turns out, there is a mill dam just before the Keowee Dam. It is connected with the Newry Mill.

Here  are a few pictures. The mill is hiding behind trees and you have to look closely to see it from the boat.

When I clicked on the location on Google, this bit of history popped up in a comment. “You cannot actually go inside of the historic mill anymore, but it was one place you would never forget. Newry Mill worker's lived in the village, rented homes from their employer. Traded at the Newry Store. It also once had its own jail! The actual Newry Post Office is still next to the Mill and is still in use today. The local Historical Society chose several of the oldest and most structurally sound houses and went in and upgraded electrical, repaired roofs, plumbing, etc. These houses stand as the silent showcase of the extremely interesting Newry history. There are still descendants of the former Mill worker's that still live in the Village. Their parents, grandparents, a lot of them themselves, once worked in the no longer running mill. Actually, there are many families that are still there because of this , and each generation chose to stay. I lived here, for over 10 years, and it was still one of those rare communities that was tight knit, close, friendly, and nicest communities ever.”

It was time now to head back down river. Just below Lawrence Bridge, there Is Isaqueena Lake. It looked like it was connected with the lake, so I wanted to take a look. Nope, another dam.

We went on down to Clemson and poked around a bit. I only got a couple of pictures. Here is one of the water intakes (?) we saw. Notice the “Tiger paw”. They are all over the place around Clemson.

And we passed the Memorial Stadium, home of the world champion Clemson Tigers. 

This is an interesting looking marina.

So, that’s about it for this little day trip. I told Old Codger about it, and he’s really excited about coming back with me to see it all himself, and many more sights on Lake Hartwell.

(Ignore these extra pictures---I can't seem to edit them out.)

             - Brian Forsyth

     We arrived at the ramp just before sunset, and I was nervous. My previous two overnight cruises were trial and error, with lots of little mistakes, lots of learning. But this cruise was special. This cruise would be the first for my wife Melanie, and I wanted her to enjoy it. This Spring Cruise was the big show, the final exam. Or at least that’s what I thought.

     When I asked her to marry me, I was pretty sure she would say “Yes,” but I had doubts she would put up with the little discomforts of sharing a 15 foot dinghy. There was nothing about that in the vows. Even the “for better or for worse” clause doesn’t cover sleeping in a dinghy. Husbands doing dumb stuff are on their own.

     "What about bugs?” she asked.

     “Oh sure, there are mosquitoes, but the tent has netting.” I didn’t mention that I had been repeatedly pierced by Maryland’s most ferocious, wild, man-eating animal on the previous trips.

     What if there’s a thunderstorm?”

     “We just anchor in a little cove where the trees will protect us from wind and the land will protect us from waves, and we wait it out. If there’s a big storm in the forecast, we go home.” But what if the trees fall on us, I wondered, or if the tent blows off? Or lightning? Lots of stuff to worry about.

     Then she asked the Big Question.

     Are there places where we can stop to go to the bathroom?”

     Oh crap. “Oh, sure. There are a few places. Here and there… Maybe a porta-potty at the ramp… maybe… Not really, no. Not any.”

     “But check this out!” I showed off my custom-built, wag-bag-based, okume and epoxy, personal comfort and hygiene facility with an understated modern design and natural wood grain finish to delight both the modern boater and generations to come.

     “Won’t that be great?”

     My customer made a funny face – the one with the pursed lips and the wrinkled up nose – and said “Hmm.”

     Sensing defeat, I deftly changed the subject. “You know, there’s a pizza place in Queenstown that we might sail to if the wind is right.” Genius.

     So after struggling through DC’s rush hour traffic and a brief delay at the Bay Bridge, we arrived at the ramp, I hustled through the rigging, and we launched as the sun disappeared over the horizon. I had picked out Deep Cove as a possible anchoring site about a mile away, and we sailed, then rowed into the cove as the last light lingered in the western sky. Melanie loved it. I set up the boom tent, turning our boat into a bedroom. Melanie loved that, too. “It’s like a popup camper on the water!” Melanie slept well, woke up smiling, and she was still smiling later. I didn’t sleep much.

     Our breakfast of oatmeal and coffee was rocked by an enormous wake that burst through the narrow entrance to Deep Cove. For the sake of objective reporting, I should mention the possibility that maybe I just lost my balance a little, but that report has not been confirmed. A little later, as we sailed out into Langford Creek, we caught sight of Norm Wolfe’s tanbark lug rig and green hull making haste to the ramp. We gave chase, but we weren’t able to catch him. I think it was probably Norm’s wake that I had felt earlier. Or did I imagine that? Like I said, I didn’t get much sleep.

     We sailed across to Town point at the mouth of the Corsica river, stopping to chat a little with Mark and Ed in their Dovekies. In 2016, when the US kicked the Russians out of their compound at Town Point near Centreville, I was hooked. I have read enough Tom Clancy novels to have a really vivid imagination about the shady activities that would take place in such a shady facility. When I found the place on Google Maps’ satellite view I noticed two things. First, a lot of trees – definitely shady. Second, it was on the shore, with a view of the water. I felt immediately that it was my patriotic duty to sail by in my little wooden boat and make some intimidating display of defiance. Maybe dump out a bottle of vodka or some caviar to show contempt. But no, that wouldn’t be right. I was raised by a couple of recovering depression-era farm kids, so no, that plan would be too wasteful. Maybe I’d make some rude gestures, or maybe I’d even moon them. Haw Haw Haw. The sixth-grader in me liked that plan. Economical, too.

     When the time came for decisive action, we were anchored 100 yards or so off shore from the red brick mansion of the former Russian compound, and the adult in me had regained control. We were rafted up with Brian Forsyth sharing a little lunch and enjoying a good chat, so I was in polite company, and I refrained from rude gestures. Anyways, the Russians were long gone, and the State Department employees that keep the place now don’t deserve any grief from me.

     The water turned glassy smooth as the forecast turned rough. I rowed a little and then we sailed a way up Langford Creek on occasional puffs. When the wind filled in a little, Melanie took the helm and sailed on a reach back to the ramp with enough speed to make Mellimac chuckle and splash through the water. Later, Melanie said that “sailing fast” was one of her favorite parts of the trip. We cranked Mellimac back up on her trailer, cutting our trip one night short to avoid the incoming weather.

     On the road home, we stopped in at the Queenstown Pizzeria. For future reference, there’s free docking on the end of the Queenstown dock, and the Pizzeria is about 4 blocks away. Good pizza. By land, there’s room for a couple of vehicle & trailer rigs at in the Queenstown Commisioner’s office across the street.

Melanie drove the car, Mellimac trailed obediently behind, and I slipped in and out of awareness in the passenger seat.

     “We didn’t need reservations or anything, did we?”

    “Nope.”

    “So we could just – go? Anytime?”

    “Uh huh.”

    “When can we go again?”

    Zzzz.

   Off we went. We stopped at Subway for hoagies (subway sandwiches, y’all) to have for lunch. They went into the cooler. Oh, it was excitin’! A day on the water! On comfy seats! It was a pleasant ride down the mountain to Lake Keowee. Heading for a high of around 70 degrees. No rain. But cloudy. Just as we were getting to our favorite launching ramp, I got to thinking, “Where did I put the key for the cabin?” I know that I had set it out with my wallet and car keys last night so I wouldn’t forget it. It’s not in my pocket. Is it in Blue’s drink holder? Guess I’d better explain that “Blue” is what we call our Ford Explorer. He’s blue, ya know. No, it’s not in the drink holder. Glove compartment? No. “Miss Debbie, did you bring it?” No. Maybe I put in in Codger’s seat locker. No. Maybe in the cooler in the other seat locker. No. Check my pockets again. No. ask Miss Debbie again. NO! Gotta face the facts. No key.  Hope I didn’t just lay it on Codger’s seat and it blew out on the way down the mountain. Old Codger put up with my griping and complaining as long as he could before blurting out, “ And YOU call ME the old codger?!?!” “ WHO forgot the key?”

   Well nothing to be done about it. At least we can still take our ride. Without the big, thick, comfy seat cushions that were locked up in the cabin. So, launch the boat, load Miss Debbie aboard with Pepper. Climb in myself and set out. I did have the throwable device (cushion) that our Coastie friends require. I sat on that. There was an old cushion from a lawn chair that I keep in Blue for when I tie a kayak on his roof, so Miss Debbie got that. The pup didn’t need a cushion.

  It was a pleasant ride with not much to report. The big thrill of the day, beyond eating our lunch, was stopping at a little beach on island #15 to stretch our legs and let the pup have a run.

   That was about it.  Except maybe, in all honesty, I’d better tell y’all about another problem that soon arose from MY coginess. I always like to have a destination on these little trips. We weren’t far from a long cove where Raccoon Creek enters into the lake. It would be just about the right distance to take us through the afternoon. I looked at the lake chart to be sure I knew where we were going, and off we went. Ya gotta go around island #17 and then head into the entrance to the creek. It’s a rather large entrance, with several other coves on either side.

   If you missed my explanation on these island numbers in a previous story, I guess I’d better stop and explain. You guys on salt water have the aids to navigation to tell you where you are and where you’re going. Buoys. The lakes here are different. The islands that are numerous as you travel down the lake, have signs on them with a big number painted on. That number corresponds to numbers marked on the lake map. Maybe you don’t know that all of these lakes are man-made, and formed by damming up rivers that flow down out of the mountains. They are narrow, but long, with lots of coves and islands that were left above the water level when the lakes were filled.

   Now, back to the story. We headed up the cove that seemed to be the right one. Nope, dead end. Let’s try another. A quick look at the map, and off we go. Nope. Dang! This can be confusing! Let’s try again. That one over there must be it! Ah! That’s better, looks like we finally found the …….. DEAD END! Doggone! (Don’t worry, that’s just an expression. The dog is still sleeping on the cockpit sole.) One Last try. Let’s go back to island #17 and try to get our bearings. About now I hear Old Codger chortling. “Ha!” “If you hadn’t forgotten the key, you woulda had the GPS. With the compass. The one locked down below in the cabin. Then you’d be able to tell which direction to go.” “You dumb old codger.” What could I say. He was right.

To end what’s turning out to be a long story, I’ll finish up be telling you that this time we had the right cove. It was a nice ride to the end. Raccoon Creek ends where you go under a highway bridge into a big, shallow, muddy pond where we sometimes go turtling. There’s a launch ramp nearby where we take our kayaks. On the way along the creek we saw a really cool boat. About all you ever see on the lakes are ski boats, pontoon boats, and jon boats. But here, tied to the dock is what appears to be an old raised deck power cruiser about 28 feet long. It had classic lines and was fitted out with bronze hardware and plenty of brightwork. I’d say that it would have been built back in the 30s or so. I dunno. I’ll post a couple of pictures for ya.

  So, back to the ramp and home. The story wouldn’t be complete without the post script. When we got home, the first thing I did was to go searching for the key. I looked where I keep my wallet and keys. No. I looked on the table in the garage next to the door where I sometimes lay things. Nope. I looked on the ground where I mighta dropped it while loading the boat earlier. No. I looked EVERYWHERE! No key. Then I went into the house wondering how I could get a new key. I only had the one. I’d lost the spare when the key ring broke last summer. Never got a copy made.  About now I glance over to where the key usually hangs between boating excursions. There it was! Laughing at me. O could hear Old Codger out in the carport laughing. The dog was laughing. The cats were laughing. The turtles woulda been laughing, but turtles can’t laugh. Miss Debbie knew better than laugh. Last thing I heard was the boat saying under his breath, “And he calls ME the old codger.”

   It’s been a cold and rainy winter here in the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina. I got started on the day with no plans to go "boat-boat". But around 10AM it was lookin' so purty, and heading towards 62 degrees down the mountain on lake Keowee in South Carolina, that I checked with Miss Debbie to see if it was OK to go play. She gave her blessing, but is still feeling kinda puny after her two-in-a-row colonoscopys and didn't want to tag along, so I wandered over to Old Codger and just managed to get out, "Hey old feller, do ya wanna........" By then he was bouncing up and down exclaiming, "YES-YES-YES....", so we proceeded to get packed up, loaded up, gassed up, and everything else up and headed out. By then it was 11:00. By 12:15 we were at the ramp. We went to the most convenient ramp, Fall Landing, in case ya wanna know. Doggone if there weren't a couple other old fellers there with another wooden boat! It was a Jeff Spira Texas Dory that one of them had built from plans. Naturally we had to compare. One anecdote led to another, then that led to a story, which reminded one of us of.....  We'll, you know how it goes. Even so, we got away from the dock by 12:45.

   It was warm with a slight breeze ruffling the water. We headed north, under the Hwy 11 bridge, towards the dam that keeps Lake Jocassee from dumping all of its water into Lake Keowee. Surprisingly, the lake was at full flood. We had expected the level to have been drawn down for winter. Maybe the record amounts of snow and rain that we've had lately had filled 'er up again. As we cruised along, we looked at all of the naked trees with their leaves gone, and the gaggle of million dollar homes, interspersed with multimillion dollar castles. One after another. Pretty boring for the most part. Once you’ve seen a couple of mega-houses and winter-dead trees, you’ve seen ‘em all. My mom used to say that the trees were all “dead-dead-dead”. The coves were more interesting. An unobstructed view back into the woods. Cute little ducks. Even some turkles catchin' a few rays. Sun rays, not stingerees. We checked out the dam. It looked just like the last time. We poked in and out of the coves. Ate a lunch of Vienna sausages and cheese crackers, followed by a pudding cup. Miss Debbie had heated me up some hot chocolate to take in my new insulated cup that a good friend had given me for Christmas, so I drank that instead of my usual Real Southern Sweet Tea or Fanta grape soda. This was all accomplished while cruising along at about 12 mph. We didn't even get in a fight with any docks!

   Old Codger was trying out his new steeper pitched prop. This is prop number 3. Each of the others had over revved Mr. Hatsu to the point that he cut out because of his rev limiter. This prop was much better. The motor didn't cut out this time. RPM maxed out at 6000, which is right at the maximum allowed. We never actually run wide open, so that will be fine. Top speed on the GPS was right at 24mph. Plenty fast for an old codger.

   By now, the wind had picked up to the point that the lake was covered with white caps. The Codger didn't like that and complained until I gave up and took him back to the dock. While loading up, doggone if another old guy didn't wander over asking about the boat. Seems like everyone wants to admire a real wooden boat. Old Codger is gonna get a swelled head if this keeps up. We talked for about 15 minutes or so, then we headed home. Old Codger never will talk to anyone else, so I have to keep these conversations going by myself. I guess he's just shy. No problem. I've been accused of talking too much anyway. We made it home a bit after 4:00. Just a nice afternoon "putz" on the lake. It was very pleasant and we're both looking forward to a couple of warm, dry, calm days in a row so we can do an over-nighter. I think winter is settling in for good, so it may be two or three month before we get a break in the weather to do that. So, until then, stay warm y'all, and dream about messing about in boats.

   For those of you that haven’t read of Old Codgers first adventure, I’ll explain that he’s home built from plans of the Jessy Skiff 15 by B&B Yacht Designs that I modified with a cabin. He’s intended for two or three day cruises on the mountain lakes in the Appalachian area, with an occasional cruise down on “real” water, salt water at the coast. He’s powered by a 20hp Tohatsu outboard motor. He’s built of Okoume marine plywood in the W.E.S.T. method, “stitch and glue”, and epoxy coated.

Since she is now sitting on her trailer next to my casa instead of her mooring, I don't have to worry about  running down to the marina (19 miles) daily to check on her. And we have a fairly functional; ramp only half a mile from the new place.

This has given me a chance to scout out some new areas for sailing as there are now a few people with various small sail boats interested in 'going someplace' as a convoy.

One of the people who kept trying to get me down here has been running kayak/bike/mule trips in Baja for 35 years . SO when she asked if I wanted to jump in on a group riding mules down the Southern Baja coast I gladly joined in. My lack of time on a mule was a little disconcerting as the last few trips I did showed me that after riding a mule for a day I was able to feel pain in places I didn't even know I had the day before...BUT I figured that we should be able to get into some places unreachable by land other wise so I asked Trudi to show me some of her favorite secluded beaches that she had been taking her kayakers for the last 35 years, and she did. And I'm glad as I learned a lot.

We spent a few days running down the coast South of Agua Verde, Baja. 8 riders/mules, 3 pack donkeys, 1 dog,  1 puppy..Donkeys carried enough supplies/water to get us a few days down the coast. Then I processed a bunch using my Steripen from some mountain streams Trudi knew about. Otherwise you couldn't even consider being back in there as water IS life. Desert ranchers we met were hand digging their SECOND 28 meter deep water well as the first one they dug dried up after last Fall's 6.5 quake.

Mules are cool beyond belief. They not only carry huge amounts of people/gear/water but they don't need to carry any food for themselves as they will eat most of the desert if allowed. We carried more food for the puppy than the mules.....They will also drink the water without me having to process it...

Natural arroyos/deltas channel rare rains such as hurricanes when they happen. But so far this year we've only had 0.05"of rain...This means the arroyos become safe and easier to travel in than riding through some thick brush, as everything in Baja can slice,dice,rip,tear your flesh as your mule plods through it all. Easy to see why the real Vaqueros wear custom leather, some of which is designed for easy in/out, on/off,  horse/mule without wearing chaps.  Beaches aren't white,sandy places, but various layers of shell,sand,rocks dependent on when the last Norther blew through. Since ALL of the East coast of Baja becomes a lee shore during the Winter, the tides/swells/and what the locals call 'dumpers' can make beach launching/retrieving a dicey event. Kayaks still have the easiest time because of their agility, and lack of draft. Some beaches drop off gradually, while others are pretty severe,suddenly. Between islands it can get REAL deep too.

What I learned was that is some of these places you almost have to wait for a low tide to check out the low lying reefs,and shelves which sit just below the surface at a higher tide and could tear out a bottom on something larger/heavier than a kayak. Most of the "cruising guides" for Baja don't deal with the interface of sea/land , dealing with areas to anchor/moor larger boats. That's also probably because small sailboats aren't the norm here. The few marinas that exist want larger boats, and launch ramps are both expensive and awkward ( none have a floating dock, etc. to tie to after you launch). A few of us are trying to instigate some sort of boat building program for kids down here , but so far not much interest.

Probably not gonna have Petunia ready to go over the mountains and try sailing the lagoons of Adolfo Lopez Mateos  before the whales come down this year, so that might be a Spring trip as we can't sail in the lagoons while the whales are breeding. But she needs, and deserves, a good over haul so I'm gonna work on her for the next few weeks and see if I can tart her up a bit.

I'll try to attach some pix of the mule trip and Agua Verde coastline ...

As many of y’all know, Old Codger had to leave this year’s B&B messabout early. But, all is not lost in the waining days of Fall here in the mountains and lakes of Western North Carolina. Miss Debbie felt sorry that I didn’t get a good final cruise in Old Codger. Here we worked all year to get him finished in time for the messabout and the Old Man had to go and get sick. She told us we could go play for a coupla days down on Lake Keowee in northern South Carolina. So we loaded up the Real Southern Sweet Tea*, some Vienna sausage* and other necessary gear and set off. (*If ya don’t know what this is all about, you’ll just have to read my stories in the Boating and Cruising Stories section of the Messing About in Boats forum.)

It was a cool Carolina blue sky day as we left the Mile Creek boat landing at 10:30, Tuesday, Oct. 23rd. Only a light breeze ruffled the deep emerald green water. Mr. Hatsu, Codger’s 20 hp Tohatsu engine purred at his cruising speed of 15mph @ 4700rpm. We pulled out of the cove and turned left to follow the general shoreline southward in a counterclockwise direction. Mr. Hatsu is tiller steered, so the Old Man had to sit facing port. Hmmm, guess that’s why the left side of the boat is called the port side. As a matter of fact, my careful investigation has proven that to be factual. The side we are facing is where the ports are on. Hey, I’ve told y’all before that you can believe everything I write. Everything is always “The truth, the half truth, and nothing like the truth.”

Here’s the view from the lake just out of the cove where the ramp is located. This is the mountain range to the north.

Old Codger has a new gadget. It’s a combination tachometer and hour meter. It picks up the electrical pulse from a spark plug wire each time it fires. It will help keep track of how long we run Mr. Hatsu and how many rpm he’s turning. We will try to keep him at about 4700 rpm which gives us the speed of 15mph. I think this is the most economical speed for us. Sorry about the fuzzy picture.

Maybe now would be a good time to give you a few facts about Lake Keowee.

(From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:) Lake Keowee is a man–made reservoir in the United States in the state of South Carolina. It was created to serve the needs of a power utility (Duke Energy) as well as public recreational purposes. It is approximately 26 miles (42 km) long, 3 miles (4.8 km) wide, with an average depth of 54 feet (16 m), and a shoreline measured at 300 miles (480 km) in total, and is approximately 800 feet (240 m) above sea level. It began in 1971 as a massive demolition and building project, including the construction of two large dams––Keowee Dam and Little River Dam––and covered 18,372 acres (74.35 km²) of the state. The lake collects or impounds waters from the Keowee River and the Little River and others, and the outflows below the respective dams join to form the Seneca River which flows into the larger Savannah River. Lake water helps to cool Duke Energy's three nuclear reactors located at the Oconee Nuclear Generating Station. In addition, the force of falling water through gravity helps generate hydroelectric power. The Keowee Hydro Station generates 158 megawatts from the lake's outflows. In addition, Lake Keowee has been touted as a recreational destination for fishing, boating, swimming, sailing, kayaking and other watersports, and the lake has been described as having pure and clean water. The name Keowee (ᎨᎣᏫ) is a Cherokee name roughly translated as "place of the mullberries." The former Keowee River, which was inundated by Lake Keowee, had been part of the Cherokee Lower Towns region, and Keowee Town had been located on the bank of the Keowee River.

From here on, most of the story will be told with pictures. Most of the homes on the lake are owned by folks with a lot more money than this Old Man has ever made. I’ve posted plenty of pictures of these in previous ramblings* so I won’t clutter up this essay with many more, but here are a few examples.

Speaking of houses, here is the biggest one I’ve ever come across on the various lakes we’ve cruised. It looks more like a castle of some European nobleman. But, no, it’s just a home.

 

This is more like a home the rest of us could afford. The following picture is taken at the end of a cove. Typically, the biggest homes are on the open part of the lake or at the mouth of the coves, then as you travel farther in, the houses get smaller until you get to the end where the more modest homes are.

 

We soon pass the top side of the World of Energy at the Oconee nuclear power plant and the Keowee Dam.

Let’s cruise on down the lake to see what else we can see. This is an interesting structure. I’m not sure what it is, but assume that it’s a water intake for something. Maybe city ware supply?

 I’ve told y’all how I don’t like sailing on these mountain lakes, but many folks disagree. Here are where a few of them hang out. It’s the Lake Keowee sailing Club.

This next picture is of a few of the boats Sailing from here. Many more are parked on dry land on the hill above where this picture is taken.

Another type of boat on Lake Keowee is the houseboat. One marina seems to specialize in these. We ran across it at the lower end of the lake as we got to the town of Senica. Oddly, there didn’t seem to be any way to get to town by water even though the chart showed the town touching the lake.

This is Lake Keowee Marina. The second picture is of one of the larger houseboats. There were several of this size.

 

Other marinas were mostly pontoon boats. These are the most popular type of boat on most all of the mountain lakes. The lake has several campgrounds, some state or county, and some private. If you want to camp and also have your boat at your campsite, there are not many choices of camper sites with a beach or safe area to pull your boat to shore. Most of the waterfront sites are rocky or lined with rip-rap (stones). If you want to anchor you’ll be ok., but if you do want to pull your boat on shore, you’ll need to ask for those sites, or better yet, go look before you reserve one.

Now we’re heading back in a northward direction on the west side of the lake. Hang in there y’all, there’s still more to see. Some of the more interesting coves are on this side of the lake.

We passed this peninsula covered with identical houses that I’m guessing are condos. The other side of the peninsula is similar to the side where I took this picture.

Here’s one of those interesting coves I am referring to. It’s called Cane Creek. The lake map shows a waterfall, Crystal Falls, at the end. Many of the coves are not developed. Old codger wanted to poke his nose in here to see what he could see. He likes waterfalls. So do I.

This is as far as we could get. Guess we’ll not see any falls on this trip. End of the road---or should I say creek.

On the way back out of the creek, we passed this abandoned hunter’s stand.

 

As we head back north, we are passing many interesting looking islands. Both the Old Man and Old Codger are getting kinda tired, so we decide to pull ashore for a bit and look around. Here’s the Codger resting his chin on the beach.

There are rules concerning the use of the islands. Where we pulled ashore, there were two signs. One said “No Fires”, and here’s a picture of the other.

As I walk along the shore, I notice some foot prints. Lots of them. The first I see are deer prints. The deer will swim across amazing distances. I don’t know why he came across to this island, but I  ‘m told that they will often swim to get away from hunting dogs.

The next prints I see are of a raccoon. These guys are everywhere. As a kid, I had a pair of coons for pets. One day I was out wandering the fields behind our vacation home in Snug Harbor, just north of St. Pete., Florida, when I found two baby coons in their home in a hole in the ground. The hole looked like one dug by a gopher tortoise which were common back then. I had reached in hoping to find a tortoise, but found these guys instead. Naturally, I took them home with me to make pets out of them.  My mom named them Nip and Tuck. It was lots of fun to watch them play together. I had them until they became adults. Turns out that one was a male and the other was a female. One day our pastor was over for a visit and Mom took him out to see cute little cuddly critters. He female bit the pastor! This didn’t set well with my mom, and I was ordered to let them go. We took them out to “Snug” the next weekend and released them. They immediately scampered up an Australian pine tree that was next to the house. For several weeks after that, each weekend we’d call them when we got there for the weekend and they’d come running. Eventually they stopped coming and we never saw them again. By-the-way kids. NEVER reach into a gopher hole. Rattlesnakes like to move in there to live.

As I strolled along the shoreline, I found this plastron (lower shell) of a river cooter turtle. Actually its just the scales, not the shell itself. These scales are called scutes and match the actual bony plates of the shell. Some varieties of turtles shed there scutes as they grow, and others don’t. The ones pictured came off after the turtle died.

Another sign on each island has a number on it. This number is one way to know where you are on the lake. They are shown on the lake map. The number starts at the lower end of the lake and go up as you head towards the top.

Now we get to the “misadventure” part of the story. We were meandering in and out of several coves and were becoming a bit confused as to just where we were. The Old Man was looking down at the chart when Old Codger decided to take matters into his own hands. He tried to go ashore to get directions, and got into a fight with a cranky old dock that took offense and jumped out in front of him. Needless to say, the Codger lost the fight and had his nose broken in the process. Not a scratch on the dock.

 

As we continue our trip along the shore and into the coves, we come across another campground. It sits on a hill and is the Crooked Creek RV Park.

From there we follow the power lines from the Oconee power station. Here is a collection of old and new houses directly under the lines. The road you see continues on across the bottom of the lake. When the lake was built, many roads were flooded like this. Along with the roads, many homes, farms, and even whole towns were covered. Also many archeological investigations were hastily completed before being covered forever.

 

I like this picture of the towers stretching into the distance.

One of the towers sets on an island.

It’s now 4:30 and time to find a nice cove to settle in for the night. We’ve used four and a half gallons of gas so far and have run Mr. Hatsu for five hours and thirty four minutes. We anchor in a little cove behind island number 9. When the lake level is down a bit, the island connects to the mainland by a sand causeway. The first picture is facing up lake over the causeway. The next is looking down the lake, and the third is up Barkshed Branch (creek).

After getting the Old Codger settled in for the night, I fixed a fancy supper, or is that dinner, of Ramen noodles and Real Southern Sweet Tea and a chocolate pudding cup. Yummy. Yes, I know that some of you are gourmet cooks and turn your proverbial noses up at my simple culinary efforts. I actually tried to cook something more once. It required boiling water. I burned the water! Ahhh, ya caught me in that one. As the picture plainly shows, I had to boil water for the noodles. So I have finally mastered the fine art of boiling water without burning it. I can also cook canned Beefaroni. But that’s about it.

After dinner, I settled in to listen to some relaxing music on my I-pod and read the latest Clive Cussler book. It was a beautiful evening. And a colorful sunset over the creek.

 I snuggled into my sleeping bag with my buddy watching over me. Garfield has been with me for at least twentyfive years and many boats.

Next morning dawned cold and calm. Steam was rising off of the water all around us. It’s my theory that when the Sun sets into the water, it heats the deep waters of the lake and causes this steam. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

There are plenty of nice beach areas to pull ashore and swim and pic-nic. One of the nicest is near just south of the Fall Creek boat launch area. This one is clear of rocks, and is actually white sand rather than the more typical mixture of sand and red clay. Guess I should explain that the lake level was down about 18 inches exposing these beach areas. When the lake is at full “flood”, most of these beaches are covered. Duke Power controls the water level according to power generation needs and also to control flooding during heavy water flow into the lake. Going into winter, beginning about now, they begin reducing the level in anticipation of snow melting in the higher elevations and flowing into the lake. This is typical of most of the mountain area lakes.

 

Now it was time to pack up my sleeping bag and straighten up the cabin in anticipation to our day’s cruising. After completing my morning “ablutions”, I woke up Old Codger and Mr. Hatsu, weighed anchor, and off we went. We soon passed under the Hwy. 11 bridge. All of the bridges have signs on them saying “No Wake, Idle Speed Only”, so we slowed down to pass under. Back in my fiberglass boat repair days, I occasionally got a boat in for repair that didn’t slow as it passed under one of these bridges and hit a support piling. One in particular sticks out in my memory. An older man brought a bass boat in with three feet of it’s bow gone. His son had hit the support head on. He was killed! If I was that dad, I wouldn’t want the boat repaired.

 

Just past the bridge was a rare sight. An old house from before the lake was built. Just about all of the homes around the lake were built after the lake was filled. All of the old houses are at the bottom of the lake. It occurred to me that back then, the house was sitting on a mountain top overlooking the river. Now it is waterfront property.

Our next destination was the Jocassee dam. We’re looking up at the dam from Lake Keowee towards Lake Jocassee. Just as we reached this point and was about to stop to take a picture, Mr. Hatsu drank the last of his fuel and I had to switch to a new gas tank. We had gotten over 8 hours of cruising on just under six gallons of gas. I’m very pleased with the economy of my Tohatsu 20.

After leaving the dam, we ventured up Eastatoe Creek passing a golf course built along the edge of the creek. I suppose that the entire creek qualifies as a water trap.

Those of you guys that have been with me for awhile know that I’m a “turtle guy”. I like to catch and keep turtles. I couldn’t resist this picture of cooters on a log. I suppose that the phrase “as easy as falling off a log” comes from the way turtles slide off a log as danger approaches.

 

And so the adventure ends. We are back at the dock where it all began only a day ago. It’s 3pm. We’ve run Mr. Hatsu right at ten hours according to his new hour meter, spread over two wonderful days of cruising. This is just what Old Codger was designed and built for. He did a great job meeting all of my expectations. Well, except for his altercation with the dock of course. Now it’s time to head back home and begin dreaming about our next excursion. This will come after Codger’s nose heals and a few little details are acompleted that I didn’t have time for before last week’s messabout. Like a proper ice box/cooler and a comfortable helmsman’s seat. We’ll look forward to being back with y’all then.

 

 

 

 

Hey y’all, I’m sure that by now you’ve all studied my historical report on the origin of Real Southern Sweet Tea. But didya know that the same Indians that originated Real Southern Sweet Tea also discovered what was to become Real Southern Fried Chicken? In the conflicts between villages back before they were all sent off on the Trail of Tears, the Indians would often set fire to the woods around the other tribes village. The free ranging turkey vultures that the Indian kids kept for pets would sometimes get caught by the flames. In the clean up operations afterward, It was the job of the young braves to fling the burned birds out into the woods. Of course they would get the juices on their fingers. They'd then lick the savory juice off and find it good! (By -the-way, this is the first time that "finger lickin' good" was used to describe the taste of fried bird.) But, the little Indian young-uns would cry every time someone would suggest eating their cuddly feathered pets for lunch.

   Parents were much the same in those days as they are today. What parent doesn’t hate to see the tears on the face of their little ones. An answer had to be found! Some enterprising brave had the inspiration to try out other types of birds. He was kinda like the Edison of his day. You know. Invention is 10% inspiration, and 90% perspiration. He tried sparrows---too small. Mocking birds---too noisy. The cardinal---his wife said they were too pretty to eat. The Carolina parrot---but they were already on the endangered list. He cooked ‘em up anyway, and they were good, but they soon actually did became extinct. He tried every kind of bird he could think of. All were rejected for one reason or another. Too this, too that, some because they just didn't taste very good. Then he thought of eagles. They were big enough. But he had a vision of the white man that was already moving into Indian neighborhoods up in the northeastern parts of the land and already beginning to put images of the majestic eagle on their money. He knew it would make the sensitive white man angry and thought better of it. No point in bringing trouble upon himself and his people.

   One day, as he was sitting on a stump mulling the problem over in his mind, he saw a flock of turkeys. Then, he heard their song. Gobble, gobble. Voila'! (Of course, he didn't actually say "voila'". That was a word used by the white Frenchmen way up in the Canadian provinces.) I dunno what he actually said, but you get the idea that he got the idea that Hmmm, they are big enough. Plump enough to make a good dinner after the Sunday afternoon punkin-chunkin games. He tossed one into the campfire, but it just burned on the outside and was still raw on the inside. Then inspiration struck again! He spied the village garbage cans. A lid would be perfect to use as a cooking implement! Then another inspiration. Melt some bear grease in the lid to help spread the heat. After cooking one up, he popped it in his mouth, and exclaimed, very good! And there ya go, y'all. Southern Indian fried turkey.

   Later, when the white invaders moved in, they thought that the turkey was much too ugly to eat, but one of them remembered the chickens that had accompanied the first Europeans from across the big pond on the Mayflower. At that time, the chickens were always boiled in a pot. but just maybe they would be even better fried. He tried it out, and just like that Indian brave of long ago, found it very good. 

   Betcha ya don't know the name of this particular white man, do ya. It was Hardley Sanders, the ancestor of none other than good ‘ol Harlan Sanders, that Kentucky colonel that made Kentucky famous for its southern fried chicken! And that's the true story of how it all started, y'all.

   Here’s a recent development in the fried chicken investigation. I kept running across the name “Bojangles” as I researched the subject.  Some people seem to think that this refers to another originator of Real Southern Fried Chicken. Actually, his real name was Mr. Bo Jangles. While researching about fried chicken, I came across his name in a footnote. I didn't mention him because he's a late comer to the chicken industry. As far as I know, he spontaneously appeared on the scene just after the War of Northern Aggression. It seems like almost overnight he popped up in various abandoned shacks down around the New Orli'ns area. Rumor has it that he was a Union spy during the war, but fell in love with Real Southern Sweet Tea during his time in the Old Southland. For a time after the war, anyone caught with sweet tea up in the northern states was subject to fines at the minimum, and sometimes even jail time, so Bo decided to remain in the south. (This part about him being a spy is an unsubstantiated rumor, so please refrain from going around telling everyone like it is a fact!)

   That's all that I know about him at this point. Maybe late I'll spend some time researching Mr. Jangles. Right now I'm in the beginning stages of a study about why some southerners seem to prefer their tea unsweetened. This fact comes as a real shock to me, and I just hafta get to the bottom of it. I'll report back to y'all later.

   It’s now later and I have come to the conclusion that any Real Southerner that prefers unsweet tea is deluded and needs therapy. Either that or he's a northern spy!

I grew up about a block from the ocean, in a town on the west coast of Canada.  My dad was there in protest; he’d been a prospector in the past and never really adapted to the idea that he had somehow ended up with a family and a house that couldn’t be packed up and carried away on a horse or mule.  But he had also grown up on the shore of a big lake and was a fantastic swimmer and excellent boatman, so even though he’d been forced to accept a lot more human contact than he wanted, at least we were really close to the water, and so fishing was always an option.

This would have been in the early 1980s, and money was really tight.  My parents had bought a house for a whopping $27,000 and interest rates were apocalyptically high, there were three kids, and the only income was my dad’s meager salary from a job that involved some kind of survey work in the archipelago of islands just northeast of us.  I don’t really know exactly what he did because when I was a kid if I spoke to him he would stop me immediately with the explanation “I don’t like the sound of human voices.”  I think he took the job mostly so he could spend time in the islands.  He knew a lot about measurements and maps from his days prospecting, which I believe was similar but much more difficult, and as such he’d usually get sent out to the islands for a few days, knock the work off in an afternoon, and then spend the rest of the time fishing.  I didn’t know this at the time because he never spoke back then, but around the time he turned 70 he started to relax his stance on talking to people and we’ve had quite a few conversations since then.

Anyway, the point is, he was quite a skilled boatman.  He had a 14’ home build, glass on ply with a stick frame, like something out of Popular Mechanics.  He didn’t build it himself; in fact he hated working with wood, which has always surprised me since his dad was quite skilled with wood and I enjoy messing around with it myself.  On top of that, we used wood for heat and he was pretty good with an axe, and also used a lot of wedges and a sledgehammer to split wood with impressive precision.  And prior to splitting, he’d buck the wood up with a big 42” bow saw, never a chainsaw.  He had a pretty good old Husqvarna that his dad had given him but he didn’t use it: too loud.  But for whatever reason, despite rather extraordinary amounts of sawing and splitting, and literal tons of wood used every year to heat our coastal Canadian home, built with all of the technology 1927 had to offer, he hated carpentry.  And so he must have bought the boat, which was blue and yellow and was pretty beamy with a fairly flat bottom – if I had to guess I’d estimate the deadrise at the transom as no more than 10 degrees and probably closer to 6.  I don’t have any good pictures of it; I think the only picture in which it is present at all is one taken on the docks near where I grew up.  As in all of the pictures of my dad, he is holding a fish. 

This is the same boat he used to weather out a gale in the waters around ten miles from my house.  The area is protected from one direction, and not too much fetch most ways, but you get really nasty seas if the wind is in the northwest.  He’d been out fishing and the wind picked up and he was stuck out there overnight, idling his engine to keep the bow into the waves.  He made it in early the next morning when the seas backed off a little.  I was young and didn’t really understand what had happened.  I barely remember it but I can remember my mom being afraid and sitting by the phone late at night and looking out the windows over and over.  I think the coast guard had looked for him but I’m not sure how that went; either they didn’t find him or they did and he wasn’t interested in rescue.  When he came home he was indifferent.  Years later I asked what it had been like and he shrugged. 

“Eight footers,” he said, “better off waiting.”

I pressed him for more detail.  “But handling that little boat in eight foot seas…that must have been difficult.  What did you do?”

“Nothing.  It's a stable boat.  Just kept the bow into the waves.”

“So if I run into similar seas, what advice would you give?”

“Just keep the bow into the waves.”

“That’s it?”

“Don’t run out of gas.  If the motor quits, you’re done.”

"Did you go all night on one tank?"

"No, I had to change it out once."

"What was that like?"

"Hard."

                                                                                     SURVIVING CHILDHOOD IN ST. PETE.

   Things were different back in the days that I grew up in St. Pete., Florida. We had adventures no one would even imagine today. These adventures happened when I lived on Seminole Blvd, South. No zip codes back then. This was WAY back in the 50s when there was no air conditioning, video games, only 3 channels on TV, and those channels with no kid’s programming except on Saturday mornings. We kids were expected to find something to do. Outside. Out from under Mom’s feet. But, we would complain that “there’s nuttin to do!” “Well, go find something…”.

   So we did. Not always what Mom had in mind. An inventive mind can always find something exciting to fill those long, hot summer days. I must admit that my mind was a bit more inventive than was good for me. Fortunately, “God protects fools and kids with over active imaginations.” I believe that there is a special “trouble gene” that boys are born with that inclines them towards the kind of adventures that I’ll be telling you about. Now that there is no one left to hold me accountable for those long ago days, I’ll relate a few of the adventures that the fertile minds of my friends and I found to do. I’ll group them under a few headings to help you follow along. I will state that as hard to believe some of these tales are, they are 100% true!

   I suppose I’d better start back to the time that the inventive genes were just beginning to kick in. You’ll notice that many of these escapades involve my best childhood friend, Thumper, who lived a few houses down from me. I must admit that he didn’t often instigate them, but he did participate willingly. The first I can remember was when Thumper and I were playing on an upstairs porch of a rental house that my dad owned. This is one case that Thumper took the initiative. I’m not sure why, but he must have thought it would be fun to push me off. So he did. With flailing arms and legs, and a blood curdling  scream, I found myself free falling through space. Musta scared poor Thumper pretty bad, too, ‘cause I believe that he made it home before I even bounced once. Another time he was chasing me around, and I dove under my gramma’s house, which was next door to my house. I almost made it, but my knee struck a concrete block and split my leg open just below my knee cap. OUCH! Stitches in that one! And then the time that he was chasing me around the rental house, and I looked back to see how close he was. I turned back around just in time to smack my fore head right into a post that was holding that same porch that he pushed me off of. More stitches!

   How about when I was playing with some other kids across the street in the Glenoak Elementary playground. I chased a ball under the old wooden merry-go-round. There was a nail sticking down. I used my head to try to bend the nail. Didn’t work. More stitches! At least Thumper wasn’t involved this time. I don’t think. Then again---I wonder who threw the ball?

   One last comment about dumb things we did before we found the more creative adventures I’m about to relate. We used to try jumping off my garage to test ideas related to gravity, and how it affects the rate of fall of a boy with a sheet, raincoat, umbrella, or??? At least no stitches. The really good news is that we all survived these early excursions into pain. Now into the more advanced activities in pain and mayhem.

Chapter 1. Fire and things that go boom!

   It all started like most boys with firecrackers.  It was fun lighting them and watching them explode on the ground. But, sometimes they would just fizzle. The thing to do then was to break them in half, lay them on the ground, light the powder that was spilling out, and quickly stomp them to make them “pop”. Hopefully with shoes on! One of the guys, not me or Thumper, would hold a firecracker tightly in his hand as it exploded! He claimed that it didn’t hurt if he squeezed it tight enough. Another friend claimed he actually threw a cherry bomb in the school toilet. I dunno. Might have been a “story” to impress the rest of us. At any rate, we all survived these early years. Now on to the more advanced methods of disaster.

   This was during the early days of the space race. Shortly after the “big war”, WWII. Our days were spent playing “war”. Well, we called it “playing army”. It was also the time of “Duck and cover drills”. The cold war had begun, and we expected the Russians to drop The Bomb on us at any time. When an alarm went off at school, we kids were to get under our desks and cover back of our necks. It was also the time of Sputnik, Russia’s first satellite, when America and the Russians were trying to beat the other into space. Stories of UFOs, or as we called them then, flying saucers, filled the newspapers, and the movies. It was also not many years before President Kennedy would announce that we would put a man on the moon. Naturally, we wanted to be part of the action.

   Following in no particular order, mainly because I don’t remember which came before what, are some of the the things we thought up to do. We were enthused about rockets and wanted to build our own. That was back in the days before Estes model rockets were available. Many experiments were made to come up with the design of a rocket that would actually fly. We’d use the end of a metal ball point pen for the body of the rocket, and glue balsa fins on. Or a piece of aluminum tubing with the end crushed down around a nut to form a nozzle. (A nut like goes on a bolt, not a nut like a squirrel eats.), or, I can’t remember what all. Once in a while, one would actually work. Kinda. But not often. Either they didn’t work, or only fizzled, or they went BOOM.

   The more involved part came from finding and making some kind of fuel. And here is where we get to the point of the story. Some of the first experiments combined match heads laboriously cut from paper match books. We didn’t smoke, but we’d steal book matches from our parents who did. Or grab them when we went out to eat with our folks. There was always a container of them on the counter, or on the table. They had printing on them advertising the restaurant. Back to the story. The fuel was created by mixing the match heads with sulfur. One of the gang was ramming that fuel into a metal pipe that he was supporting between his feet, with a metal bar to compact the maximum amount in. Bad idea. BOOM!!!! He wound up in the hospital. Blew the flesh off the inside of his feet. Burned his eye lashes and eyebrows off, and burned his face severely. But he survived the experience.

   Then there was the time I was messing around with various compounds from my chemistry set in the garage. Somehow it caught fire and flamed up to the rafters! But it burned itself out before anything caught fire. Like the garage. Our old wooden, flammable garage! If my dad ever wondered why there were charred areas on the rafters, he never said anything. I survived to live another day.

   Another time, a friend and I were in my mom’s kitchen making a refined version of our latest fuel mixture. Maybe I’d better stop here and explain that one of the guys, Buster by name, would actually go to the library and research this stuff. He found all kinds of formulas for explosives, like gunpowder, but not much on rocket fuel. He did discover that the fuel pellets that you could buy for those little, low powered, so called rocket motors, Jetex rockets, was a mixture of saltpeter and sugar. These motors would power a little balsa glider, but didn’t have enough thrust to actually launch a rocket. We had used this mixture in lots of rockets without much success. But a lot of fun trying. It sure would burn and smoke!

   Back to the story. We figured out that the Jetex pellets were molded and hard, and maybe that had something to do with it. Maybe we should try that. The best way to mold the powder into a solid pellet form would be to melt it with heat. How to do that? Easy, on Mom’s kitchen stove. Her electric stove, of course. This was at our vacation house at Snug Harbor. “Snug”, as we called it, appears in many of out adventures. Even we kids knew better that to try it over an open flame. Perfect. We were smart in how we did it. We didn’t use one of Mom’s pots. It might get ruined. Here’s the plan. Place the mixture in an old tin can that we cleaned out especially for our purpose. Place can directly on burner. Turn on heat. What could be easier, or more logical?

   Gotta stop again and explain about tin cans back then. They were made out of steel. I guess it was tin coated. I dunno. Anyway, the top and bottom were soldered in place. And there was a seam soldered down the side. Can ya guess what happened next? The solder melted. The partially melted mixture spilled out onto the stove burner. And POOOOOF!!!! Flames erupted all the way to the ceiling. Smoke everywhere. Burned a hole in the stove top. Burned the wallpaper on the wall behind the stove. Burned the paint on the ceiling. Spilled over onto Mom’s new carpet. Random pattern carpet that couldn’t be matched! Sassy, the parakeet, coughing his little head off! Mom screaming! Boys screaming! But, at least the house didn’t burn down. Sassy survived. New paint. New wallpaper, or maybe the wall was painted, I don’t remember. New carpet. New stove. I survived whatever the punishment was. I’ve blocked that part from my memory!

    Here’s another fun use for saltpeter and sugar. Remember how we used to play army? Army guys had hand grenades. I made my own. The old chemistry sets had wooden vials to hold some of the chemicals. My older brother had gone off to college and left his chemistry set behind. Those vials were perfect! Fill them with saltpeter and sugar mix. Drill a little hole in the lid and insert a fuse. We bought rolls of Jetex rocket fuse to ignite our various rockets and other “burny” things. In the heat of battle, I’d light one and throw it in the general direction of the enemy. The enemy let me know in no uncertain terms that hand grenades were not allowed! Other than a burn or two in the enemies’ clothing, no injuries occurred. And I survived.

   Another war related instrument of destruction was the land mine. Here’s how we made ours. A large jar lid filled with saltpeter and sugar, place a smaller lid filled with potash in it on top of the salt peter and sugar. Place a bottle cap on top of that filled with glycerin. Cover with a piece of wax paper covered with sand and leaves to hide it. I shoulda mentioned that this happened in the alley behind my house that some of the kids would use to walk home from school. We’d rush home in time to hide the landmine in their path. Then we’d hide in wait in the garage. The same one that I almost burned down. Soon, an unsuspecting kid would come walking down the ally and step on it. The glycerin would mix with the potash, and about the time the kid was a few feet down the alley, it would ignite and set off the saltpeter and sugar, Flames and smoke would erupt several feet in the air with a great “swoooshhh”. Imagine their surprise! Great fun. We’d howl with laughter at their reaction. No one was ever hurt, and my parents never knew, so yet again, I survived to think up yet more fun things to do.

   That alley was the location of yet another exciting prank. During the summer, I would often have Thumper over to “camp out” in the back yard. It’s been said that nothing good happens after midnight. Here’s an example of that truth. One warm summer night we had stayed awake late talking and a strange idea came into my fertile brain. Wouldn’t it be great fun to pour my dad’s mower gas down the storm drain that ran right down the center of the alley? And throw a match in! It WAS fun! Fuuume! Flames shooting out of the manhole. And manholes blowing off and flames erupting down the alley! I loved it. Scared poor old Thumper half to death! Dad didn’t ever find out what happened to his gas, so, yet again, I survived.

   Here’s yet another, but, this time it was when a few of us were camping in the front yard of my families vacation house in Snug Harbor, on Tampa Bay, near Gandy Bridge. I had an old mullet boat that had washed up in front of our house during a storm. We figured that it was abandoned. Kinda rotten, and no registration numbers. We rode around in it with my 15 horse Merc. This night, we had the brilliant idea to drive it out to the cooling inlet of the Florida power generating plant on Weedon’s island. There was a channel marker and platform at the entrance to the cooling channel. But we needed a reason to go out there. One of Buster’s creations was a device called a “Coke bottle bomb”. This is made by filling an empty coke bottle with our scientific mixture of match heads and sulfur. A Jetex fuse was then inserted in the top of the bottle.

   So, off we went. It was probably 1 or 2 in the morning when we got to our destination. We tied up to the dock, and placed the Coke bottle on one of the planks. One of the guys lit the fuse as I proceeded to Yank the starter cord on the motor. Brmm, Brmm, brmm. It wouldn’t start! We’re gonna DIE!!! But, just in time, the old Merc did start, and we barely escaped the dock when the bomb exploded with a satisfying KA-BOOM! And with burning match heads raining over a wide area! A great night! Next morning we went back out to the channel marker to see what we had wrought. The only evidence was a perfect imprint of the bottom of the glass bottle. “Coca-cola Bottling Company”.

   I’m sure that here were many other fire and boom adventures, but I can’t recall any right now. But, never fear. Thumper, “camping out”, and other activities supplied plenty of opportunities for my genius. So, let’s move on to the next heading.

Chapter 2. Camp-out-in-the-yard adventures.

   This first story could maybe have been included in the fire and boom stories, but it was an unplanned boom, so it probably fits better in this category. Remember that during the Summer I’d have a friend or two over to camp out in the back yard.  Usually Thumper, or later, Bill O’neal, my best friend in Junior High. We usually had a campfire in the corner of the backyard, and would cook hot dogs. Beefaroni, spaghetti, or pork and beans were often substituted when we felt we wanted something requiring more effort that poking a coat hanger through a hot dog. Of course, these things came in cans. We’d have to open the can and dump the contents into a pot. Then stick the can in the flames. Yes, I know that we shoulda waited ‘til we had some coals to put the pan in. WAY to complicated. It was easier to just get a good fire going and stick the opened can in close to it to heat up. One night we didn’t want to go to the trouble of watching the can. Besides, we were planning to go on some adventure in the neighborhood. Instead, we got the fire going, and put the unopened can in, and then we began getting the things we would need for our neighborhood excursion. About the time we were ready to go. BOOM! The can exploded! But, no one was hurt by flying can shrapnel. Bill and I were in the boy scouts and had been told about some boys that were heating can of unopened beans. In their tent. Their can had exploded and the hot beans had burned through the tent fabric, leaving perfect bean shaped holes behind. Too bad we hadn’t remembered about that. Oh well, by now I’m sure that you figured out that, as usual, we survived. I’ll quit reminding you of that fact after each incident that I’m fixin’ to tell you about. You get the idea by now.

   As mentioned in the last story, Bill and I had joined the Boy Scouts. We were only involved for about three months, We figured we could have more fun on our own, but one benefit from our time as scouts was that we now figured that we knew all there was to know about camping, and had the proper gear to do it with. Tents, sleeping bags, camp stove, comic books, and such.

  One weekend, Bill and I, and a couple other guys that we were in scouts with, planned to camp in the woods north of St. Pete. I don’t remember just where it was, but there was a stream running through the woods that we followed back to a cleared area that we were going to camp in. We set up camp and built a fire to cook over. About that time, the skeeters attacked! It was unbearable. The only thing we could think of to do, was to move into a concrete shed that was in the clearing. There were no windows, and only a half rotten wooden door in the shed. The skeeters found us! Being bright, intelligent young men, we decided that we could chase the skeeters out by building a good smoking fire on the concrete floor. We did. And, it kinda worked. Trouble was, the heat and smoke was worse that the skeeters! We didn’t realize at the time that we could of asphyxiated ourselves along with the skeeters. On top of that, next morning when we tumbled out of the shed and crawled down to the creek to wash the soot off of our faces and bodies, the creek was full of cotton mouth snakes!

   Here is another camp-out-in-the-yard escapade. This one involves Thumper again. It was another night when we just couldn’t seem to get to sleep. One of us, probably the writer, thought up the idea of riding our bikes down to the St. Pete. Waterfront. There was a park that we used to go to, to play army or to swim in the shallows of Tampa bay water front. That was fine with our parents for us to do during the day. But night time? Not so much! There was only one small problem with our plan. Thumper’s bike had a flat tire. Hmmm, gotta be creative. I know, we’ll just borrow a bike from Bob and Bill Lindberg (The “Bergy Brothers”), who lived across the street to the north of my house. Maybe you begin to see how this is gonna go. It was night time. After midnight. (Didn’t I tell y’all that nothing good happens after midnight?) We couldn’t just knock on the door and ask. Awww, they won’t mind. Besides, they’ll never know. We’ll return it when we get back.

   So, off we went. I on my bike, and Thumper on theirs. We were just crossing 9^th. Street. There were no cars. Except one. A COP!, Excuse me, a police officer. What could we do? We weren’t supposed to be out at that time of night. Especially on a “borrowed” bike. We RAN! I took the lead, and Thumper followed close behind. The policeman was gaining on us! I know what to do! We’ll cut through the wooded lot next to the road. I turned in, but when I looked back, there was no Thumper. Poor Thumper had stopped, and the cop had taken him home. My memory is a bit foggy, but I suppose I must have gone on home. Anyway, next morning my folks got a call from the police station. Thumper, I, and our parents had to appear at the station to explain what we were doing out in the wee, small hours. The subject of the “borrowed” bike didn’t come up. I guess we were the only ones that knew about that little detail. I suppose we returned the bike next day. I don’t remember. I also don’t remember the consequences. Probably, we weren’t allowed to see each other for some period of time. We were on “restriction” a lot in those days. Or camp out for the rest of the summer. And there begins and ends my experience with the police. I learned a valuable lesson that night! Don’t get caught.

Chapter 3. Water games:

   Like most St. Pete. Kids, we spent many happy hours on the water, whether swimming at the beach, water skiing, or just blasting around in boats. My dad taught me to swim before I could walk, which resulted in a couple of outcomes. I had no fear of the water, and I LOVED anything to do with the water. Here are a few examples of water activities that could have ended in disaster, buy yet, somehow I survived.

   Do any of you experience the excitement of going to the beach? But, ya gotta drive through all of the congestion and traffic to get there. Then find a place to park. Then worm your way along the sand until you find a place big enough to spread your beach towel. Then wade through the throngs of people until you are far enough from shore to spread your arms and swim. At least that’s the way it was last time I visited the St. Pete. Beaches. It was a bit different back in the 50s and 60s. You couldn’t wait ‘til dad would holler, “Get in the car, y’all, we’re goin’ to the beach!” We’d drop whatever we were doing and run to the car, and jump in to the back, then maybe stretch out on the seat. No seat belts in those days. On the way to the beach, we’d pass through miles of wilderness. Nothing but Australian pines. Then we’d get to the beach. A few cars would be in the parking lot. A few folks on the beach. We’d have the water almost to ourselves! Pretty soon, the “good humor man” would come down the beach, music issuing from the speakers. Dad would always buy us an ice cream bar or Nutty-Buddy”.

   As we kids got into our teen years, we could hardly wait for Summer! The first warm weekend in spring, we’d beg to go to the beach. We’d play, swim, and lay in the Sun, and turn bright red! No sun block! Maybe a bit of coconut oil. Ohhh, the pain! Then we’d stay in the house until the dead skin all peeled off. A couple of weeks later, we’d do it all over again. by the time that had peeled, we’d have developed a protective tan, and were good for the Summer. So, what is there to survive from that? Well, years later, I developed melanoma from all that Sun exposure earlier in life. Had to have various organs removed along with the soccer ball sized melanoma!

   Another favorite swimming spot was the “17^th. Street dock.” Mighta been 17^th. Ave. What do kids know. Anyway, we’d ride our bikes from home to the docks. And off the end of the docks! At least  none of us ever got wrapped up in the bike frame and drowned. Kinda rough on the bikes, though.

   I think that the most fun was had when we’d spend weekends and Summer vacations at Snug Harbor. The house on the water that my folks had built is gone now, along with all of the others. Nothing but condos now. But, back then, we’d spend day’s water skiing, or just blasting around in my boat. The boat driver would swing by as close as he could to the dock to spray down anyone foolish enough to be standing or sitting on the end. If the skier was ready to stop, he’d let go of the tow rope at the last moment, and step out of the skis as he hit the beach, running up the beach until he slowed down enough to stop. Or fall on the beach! Oh, guess I outa tell ya that there were oyster shells mixed with the sand! Lotsa cuts resulted!

   Another favorite activity was to swim across from the house to the mud flats. Actually a few feet of water shallow enough to stand up in, with a sandy bottom. We’d have mud throwing wars. Like snow ball fights. There were little round non-stinging jelly fish that we’d throw, too. There were also sting rays aplenty! But none of us ever got “stung”. Have you ever flown over the beaches, and especially Tampa Bay in a plane? Low enough to see things in the water? SHARKS ALL OVER! Including hammer head sharks. But, none of us were ever eaten---or even snacked on.

   Across from the house were mangrove covered islands that had grown up on oyster bars. It was great fun racing the boat around between the islands and shore. Speaking of racing, in my later teen years, I got involved in outboard racing. We formed a club, and often met at “Snug” to practice with the boats. “Testing sessions” we called them. I remember two incidences in particular. I was practicing turning using one of the islands like a turn on the race course. Once, while sliding around the island, I hit a little wave, and skipped off sideways, right up into a mangrove tree! As I lay there gasping, I heard one of the guys holler, “Hey Chick! Watcha doin’ in that tree? Chasing squirrels?” Another time, I was practicing with a new hydroplane that I’d just finished building. I was running across a shallow spot next to a sand bar, when the hydro blew over backwards! It landed high and dry on the sand bar.   When I came up sputtering and coughing out sand, I heard my friends howling with mirth! They said that I’d hit head first in the shallow water, with just my kicking legs showing above the surface! I guess it WAS funny. But I coulda broken my neck!

Chapter 4. BB gun misadventures.

   Now we move on to some of the dumbest of the dumb. Did ya ever have a BB gun? I bet that you never did anything dangerous or dumb with it. Only shot at targets, and that with adult supervision. You young’uns reading this maybe never even had a BB gun. Well, back in my day, all boys had them. Often a Daisy or Red Rider would show up under the Christmas tree. Dad gave us a few simple rules and trusted us to follow them. Bad idea! Here are a few examples of just why it was a bad idea.

   Bad idea number one: Remember how we boys liked to play army? What could be more fun than playing army with a real gun? BB gun anyway. A few of us were actually dumb enough to have BB gun fights! I remember one time in particular. Thumper and I were tramping in the fields behind the house at Snug Harbor. We were showing off to each other shooting at various objects. Cans and bottles. Branches in a tree. Fish along shore. Even a bird or two. Somehow we decided on a hide and seek game. Thumper took off to hide, and after the agreed upon time, I went looking for him. And I found him. He was hiding up in a big old pine tree. I took careful aim and cut loose at him. He tried feebly to shoot back, but between trying to hold on to the tree and ducking my BBs, he never had a chance! OW! OUCH! QUIT IT! I GIVE UP! I stopped and he climbed down. I imagine that he had a few unkind words to say to me. Funny thing. Not long after that I had an experience that turned me off to guns and shooting living things, and Thumper went off to war and made the army a career.

   I don’t know how we ever kept from getting hurt. Did you see the movie, A Christmas Story? The boy in the movie wanted a Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model air rifle. He tries to convince his parents, teacher, and Santa that it would be the perfect Christmas present. All tell him, “You’ll shoot your eye out”. Well, that happened in real life to my brother. When he was about 12, he was shooting at the ground in front of his friend. A BB ricocheted off the ground and hit his friend in the eye and blinded him.

   Bad idea number two: I found a box of 22 long rifle shells in my brother’s closet when he went off to college. No gun. Thankfully. Heck, I can get in enough trouble without a real gun. Here’s what I did. I’d lay the bullets out one at a time on the ground, with the end of the shell facing back towards me. Then I’d take careful aim, and try to hit the shell with my BB to hear the loud BANG. I did it several times and got a satisfying bang. The last time, I heard the BANG and felt something hit me in my lower lip. OUCH! That hurt. Apparently the shell had come back at me and hit me. Oh well, no real harm done. I wiped the little bit of blood off, and forgot about it. In a few days it had healed and only left a little bump. I figured that it, too, would heal. It never did. Years later I needed to have a cavity filled, and the dentist took an X-ray. Guess what. Yep, there, showing up as a perfect little round ball, was the BB. It’s still there to this day. I have lots of fun when I go to the dentist as an adult, explaining what-in-the-world is showing up in his X-ray!

   Bad idea number three: Remember how I told you awhile back that something happened that turned me against guns and killing things? Here it comes. Like many boys, I loved animals. All kinds of animals. Birds, squirrels, lizards, among them. But yet I couldn’t resist the challenge of trying to shoot them. One day, I was by myself, wandering through the field behind the house at Snug Harbor. It was a hot, late summer day. You know the kind, Upper 90s, high humidity, no breeze. H-O-T, hot! I just had to crawl under a big bush, out of the Sun, to cool off and rest. As I laid there, a sparrow landed in the branches. Then another. And another. After awhile, the branches were full of those little sparrows. I don’t know what came over me, but I picked up my BB gun and took aim, and shot. And shot. Again and again. In a kind of trance. Suddenly, I woke up. All around me were dead and dying little birds. It horrified me that I had done that. Those little birds that I loved. It made me sick. That’s the last time that I tried to kill any animal on purpose. And it’s the last bad idea that I have to share about BB guns. But, never fear, I still have some other bad ideas to tell you about.

Chapter 5. Snakes, gators, and things that go bite:

   I’ve always loved reptiles and amphibians. Especially turtles. It started when my dad brought home a turtle that he had found crossing the road.  My dad built me a turtle pen, with a little pond.  Soon more were added. They were all over the place crossing roads back then. Eventually, he built a big 8 foot by 12 foot pool. I and my friends would head down to Lake Maggiore or Crescent Lake to try to catch turtles. We tramped all over the woods and swamps without ever being bitten by anything venomous or dangerous.

   Well, once. We were crossing a ditch, when one of the guys reached down in the water for a little snake he saw there. Turned out to be a baby cotton mouth, who objected to being handled by biting the boy’s hand! What will we do? One of us pulled out his shoe lace and tied it around the bitten hand, then we scurried back to the road to get help. We tried to wave down a car to get a ride to the hospital. No one would stop! Finally, one of the guys laid down in the middle of the road, while the rest of us hollered and waved at the next car. Thankfully, this one stopped, and after hearing our story, took the boy and another friend to the hospital. The others of us took the bicycles and went home. Thankfully, it turned out to not be serious. For some reason the snake didn’t inject any venom. We were much more careful after that. Or were we?

   Sometime later, maybe a year or two, the pet store, I think it was actually Webb’s city, began to sell baby caimans, a member of the alligator family. We couldn’t afford one, but we all wanted one. Hey, they’re almost like baby alligators. We had seen these down at the swamp behind Lake Maggiore. Let’s see if we can catch our own! So, first opportunity, off we went on our trusty bikes, carrying nets and pillow cases (We always had old pillow cases with us to hold the varmits we caught.) We crept down to the edge of the swamp. We knew they were in there, ‘cause we could hear them as we were riding up, but they’d stop making noise as we got close. They made a kind of guttural croak sound. Pretty soon, one of us tried to imitate the croak to see if the baby gator would answer, and, sure enough, they did. As they croaked, they’d move enough so that we could see them. Then, we’d carefully wade out and pick them up, put ‘em in the pillow cases that we always had with us to carry our captures in , and take them home. They’d wind up in our various pens and ponds. They’d often manage to escape. I remember getting a call from a neighbor, “Is this your alligator?” “Come get the dang thing!”

   We never thought of the danger. The swamp was infested with cotton mouth water moccasins! We just waded right in! And, did you know that the mamma gator would watch over the babies for the first year? The big daddy bull gator, too! And that an adult gator could run faster on land than a person? Or even a quarter horse? And that they could swipe their tail and break your legs? Or that they’d then drag you into the water and do the “death roll” with you until you drowned? As I said way back at the beginning of this essay, “God protects fools and kids with over active imaginations.”

So, faithful reader, so ends this essay on how I survived my early years. In spite of myself. I hope you enjoyed hearing about some of our adventures, but please kids, don’t try this at home!!!!

So last summer I built my first boat, a little plywood "instant boat" designed by David Beede called "Summer Breeze". 

https://www.simplicityboats.com/summerbreeze.html

I grew up on long island