Day four on the ICW - Tina gets a bath!

By our fourth day we had both hopelessly lost track of the date or day of the week.  We had come somewhat untied from time and calendars and I marveled at the feeling of liberation.  My work breathed down our necks, however, and the trip took on somewhat more urgency since we had left later than we intended and it was looking like we wouldn't reach our destination until the next day.  That would be a total of 4 days to get us from Beaufort, SC, to Shallotte, NC.

The waters of Winyah Bay greeted us that morning as we rounded the bend.  By noon we had reached the Waccamaw River, a brown, tannin-infused ribbon of water that had us dodging logs and river detritus as we wound our way closer to the tourist-laden Myrtle Beach.  By the time we reached the Waccamaw we had left behind the wretched greenheads and were surrounded on all sides by Cypresses and Cypress Knees.



This seemed like a likely place for alligators and I kept a vigilant eye out for them but never saw any black eyes peering from the surface of the water.

By now we had fallen into a fairly comfortable routine.  Brian steered and I planned and took notes.  I noted the time whenever we passed a statue mile and alerted him whenever we were nearing a bridge.  This day was bridge-free but I did realize that there was no convenient anchorage for us that night.  We either have to stop very early or very late, and we knew all too well the folly of waiting too late to anchor.  The dream of a night at a marine began to emerge like a beautiful mirage in the desert.  I had a list of marinas from the Salty Southeast Cruiser's Net and called a couple of them for rates.  We decided on the Osprey Marina, which turned out to be a delightfully serendipitous selection.

After three hot, sweaty days on a floating oven the prospect of a shower was almost more than I could bear.  We docked, beautifully so, at the marina around 5pm.  It was a pretty marina, but small, tucked back into the sidewaters of the Waccamaw.  There were turtles paddling around the boat and Brian found a baby turtle to play with as I hopped excitedly around the boat gathering bathing supplies.  He tried to enlist me in his turtle playtime but I was too drawn by the siren song of the showers.  I'm not exactly a prissy woman but I do like to be clean.  I hadn't been able to so much as wash my hair in days and the best shower of my life called to me.  I spent a glorious time in the shower and probably used a ridiculously exorbitant amount of water, but it made me happy.

We emerged from the showers a few hours later, squeaky clean and wearing real clothes, looking and feeling fairly human.  Feeling fit to be among landlubbers, and ready for a real meal after days of Chef Boyardee and tuna and crackers, I called up a local restaurant that would pick us up at the marina.  We were picked up by Kevin, who happened to be the chef at Scatori's, as he finished up some pizza delivery rounds.  It turns out this was a Monday night, which is apparently a slow restaurant night in the area, so Kevin had plenty of time for cabbing transients like us to his own restaurant and back.  Keven was a great guy and we had a great time learning all about his experiences living in New Jersey and Myrtle Beach, and about learning from Emeril Lagasse in Orlando.  I shared with Kevin a love for food shows, though my love doesn't really extend into the kitchen so much, and we all chattered away on the drive to the restaurant.  One side of Scatori's is a low-key pizzeria and the other is a slightly more formal, but by no means stuffy, sit-down dining area.  We chose the formal side and were treated to delicious food the likes of which I'm not accustomed to getting in Myrtle Beach.  Kevin sent us a martini glass of seafood that was scrumptious.  I even liked the mussels.  One of the things Kevin will do is create a dish for you on the fly if you just tell him the three main ingredients you'd like.  Brian asked for one of these "Kevin specials" with seafood.  My entree, chicken gorgonzola, was yummy but Brian's was a concoction of seafood delight.  If you ever get the chance to go to Scatori's, whether you're staying at Osprey Marina or not, be sure you do!  And also be sure to get one of the Kevin special requests.  You won't be sorry.  Our server - I'm sorry to say I've forgotten his name - was fantastic and super friendly too.  I can't recommend this place enough.

When we got back to the boat that night I was actually thinking of it as home and without any grudgery.  There was no dealing with the Beezlebubs and I was able to get a fan going and slept soundly through the night.  We slept in the next morning, had a leisurely breakfast at the marina, and got a fairly late start to the day.  But it was well worth it.  The Osprey Marina was a wonderful facility with such friendly people.  Throw Scatori's into the mix and this place was hard to beat.

Day three on the ICW - attack of the greenheads

Our second night of anchoring on the ICW was considerably smoother than the first night, relatively speaking. We anchored in Toomer's Creek, near what appeared to be a houseboat and, of course, a smattering of crabpots. Since Beezlebub the Larger was the anchor that seemed to finally get us set the night before we toyed with the idea of trying a Bahamian mooring using both the Beezlebubs. Why we thought we could get two anchors set when we couldn't set one the night before is a question for the ages, but still, I was game. Well, game also being a relative term. I won't bore you with all the details, because there are more agreeable things to ponder, but I think this is when my anchor-loathing truly began. On a more pleasant note, we had chosen a beautiful spot on this night. We were ready with our bug defenses, including an awesome screen, and had plenty of daylight for anchoring and prepping. The sun set across the water and marsh grass in a rosy glow as we prepped for the night.

When I went down into the main berth I heard a strange and unnerving crackling sound. At first I had visions of the paint cracking off the boat in great swathes and then some distant part of my brain said snapping shrimp. Brian later heard it (the noise, not my brain) and asked, in an only somewhat alarmed and what-the-heck tone, what was making that noise? "Is something chewing on the boat?" We could hear it from everywhere inside the boat and it was particularly loud when we were at the front inside of either hull. "I think it's snapping shrimp" I told him in a fairly confident tone. We could see no physical evidence of activity outside or of paint peeling away so we dismissed it and went about our preparations for the night.

I was still nervous about the anchoring, and still rose multiple times during the night to check our position, so it was still a fairly sleepless night for me while the Cap'n slumbered loudly next to me in spite of all my efforts to get him to take turns checking the anchor. But we were more relaxed about our departure the next morning, since we were actually off the official ICW and didn't have to worry so much about being mowed down by another vessel, and had time to take in the soft beauty of the morning. Egrets waded in the water around us again and I also spied two small fins swimming near the marsh grass. A baby shark having a little breakfast near one of the crabpots. Being a shark aficionado, I hoped the little guy would stick around but after a moment it disappeared beneath the surface and was gone from view. This was the kind of time that made me fall in love with the water all over again.

I had somewhat mastered the art of making coffee in a percolator on our small Coleman propane stove and managed to engineer a breakfast of coffee and oatmeal as we got underway. By the 3rd day we had come to realize that navigating the ICW was cake. We could even have our Maemomapper going on Stanley, my Nokia, and just follow the pink line. Depth wasn't much of a problem for us since our draft is only about 2'. We were averaging a stately 5 mph and I was able to fairly accurately predict when we would arrive somewhere by tracking the time we passed the statute miles. I had a state-of-the-art tracking device for this called, in some parts of the world, a notebook.

A combination of ease, exhaustion from lack of sleep, and brainmelt from the heat had worn away my nervous anal-retentiveness. I even missed checking the time at a few points. Most of this day was spent figuring out how to spend less time and energy ducking from one hull to the next a hundred times in an hour, trying to keep cool, admiring the scenery, and worrying about anchoring that night.


And then there was our combat with what we now know is the dreaded greenhead horsefly. Somewhere near Georgetown, SC, these ferocious flies began to invade the boat in droves. At only 5 mph, or slower, we couldn't outrun the dastardly beasts. They were immune to our bug spray and judging from how many hounded us I think we may have been the only blood supply for miles around. Every venture into the interior of the boat was accompanied by crazed swatting and frantic flailing, inspired by their nasty bites, in an effort to kill them or, at the very least, get in and out without one landing on you.


Our only anchorage choices as we neared Winyah Bay were either very close or too far away to make during daylight, so we began the anchoring process around 5:30 that afternoon. We found a likely place called Duck Creek. I stood on crabpot watch with the binoculars as we motored into the creek and was dismayed by what I saw. The creek was a veritable minefield of crabpots. Every inch of shallow water was filled with them. As we neared the opposite mouth of this short creek I saw yet more crabpots. Cap'n weaved his way through them as I called out their locations. I stood up by the mast and scanned the horizon of the larger creek ahead and saw ahead....more crabpots. I was stunned. They were literally everywhere. Some Mad Crabber had lost his mind and exploded crabpots across every inch of shallow water.

We were limited by the amount of chain and rode we had on our anchors so we couldn't anchor just anywhere. 15' was our minimum depth. We finally found a spot that seemed shallow enough and had somehow been neglected by the crazed crabpotter. The tide was running fast and hard. I had my usual difficulties with the Beezlebubs. "Has the anchor touched bottom?" Brian called out. I'd try to count out the feet of chain and rope as I lowered the bloody heavy thing into the water. I waited for some obvious sign that it had touched the bottom, but there was nothing obvious about it, and I couldn't realistically count because it was hard enough just holding onto the thing with my reduced musculature. "I don't know! I can't tell!" I called back. He gave me a look. I stared down at the water where the chain disappeared beneath the surface, willing it to give me some sign. When no sign was forthcoming Brian came to the front of the boat and stared at it himself. We wrangled together with the anchors and finally felt it was possibly set. We stared down at the water together. The boat would move, the anchor rope would turn at odd angles to the boat as it moved, not at all in the place we would expect it to be, but we seemed to be staying basically in place. The anchors were now becoming almost living entities to me. And I loathed them.

Since we anchored so early we had a little time to kill now. We cleaned the foredeck, which was covered in marsh mud from the anchors, got our screen up, dispatched the remaining greenheads, and settled in for some dinner and cards. But Kozmik Kaos was anchor sailing, swaying back and forth by about 90 degrees, and she was doing it fast. And a curious rushing sound came to us from the creek bend a few yards away. It sounded almost like waves and it looked like there were even tiny whitecaps. Once the darkness came we settled into the main berth for the night. I slept little, once again paranoid about the anchor and too hot, and Cap'n once again slept like a log. A very unmovable unwakeupable log. Eventually I did sleep some and sometime during the night the fierce tide reversed and the boat became less like a pendulum and more like a solid object on a chain.

Day two on the ICW - we make Charleston!

The stand-out memory I have of our second day on the Intracoastal Waterway is definitely our trip through Charleston, SC. Our chartbook for this trip was a rather intimidating affair replete with mysterious lines and symbols of varying types. It had both of us novices a little nervous, to tell the truth, but Charleston really had my knickers in a twist. The chart for Charleston looked like it had been drawn by madmen. We had a nice, tidy pink line to follow on the chart in order to stay in the ICW but in Charleston that sweet little pink line disappeared and was replaced with a maze of other lines that intersected in drunken ways and things that seemed to emanate an urgent and dire warning of submerged objects, restricted areas, and large vessels that wouldn't even notice our tiny little boat was there. Charleston wasn't the quiet and peaceful waters we had navigated the day before. Charleston is a major harbor. It has industry. It has commercial traffic.

As it turned out, I was entirely worried about the wrong thing about Charleston.

I managed to stay relatively calm as Charleston loomed nearer. We found ourselves navigating a nasty, narrow little passage just prior to Charleston that was short but gave us some of the most trouble we had on the entire trip. The currents and the powerboat wakes were making steering a challenge for Brian and then one of the rudders began to emit a loud screech. The Captain commenced with angry yelling as I tried to figure out exactly where the dreaded racket was coming from while he continued to fight the currents. We eventually emerged from the narrow passage and I took over steering while Brian dealt with the rudder. We also had our first restricted opening bridge to contend with before we got to Charleston, the Wappoo Creek, Highway 171 Bridge, which the Cap'n handled like an old pro. He really sounded like he knew what he was doing when he hailed them with our VHF. I was proud. The Wappoo Creek Bridge is an old Bascule bridge at at Statute Mile 471.

We made it through the bridge and soon saw another, much larger, bridge in the distance, the Wappoo Creek, Hwy 171 bridge. This bridge heralded the entrance to Charleston Harbor. Past the bridge we could see a few boats, including a couple of sails! Once we passed under the bridge, and entered the harbor, it didn't take long for it to become apparent that what I really should have been worried about were all the yahoos in their motorboats out to get their weekend boat jollies. Everywhere you turned there were powerboats of all sizes zooming full-throttle across the water. "Rules of the Road" were apparently nothing but a myth here. Many of these boaters, either uncaring of or oblivious to the effects of their wakes on us, blasted past on us on both sides. They passed to our starboard. They passed to our port. They passed in front of us. We were in a state of constant rocking. The sun had decided to come out and was scorching our backs. There was a wide expanse of horizon not far in the distance that I was fairly certain was the Big Blue. The chart was confusing and so were our heretofore sensible ICW markers. Unfortunately, I must compliment the Captain on his prowess during all of this. He got us through there without breaking a sweat (metaphorically anyway, physically is another matter entirely) and kept us right on track with the ICW. Soon the specter of Charleston was behind us and we congratulated ourselves on our successful piloting of Charleston Harbor.

Our passage through Charleston wasn't all bad. It was super cool to see Charleston from the water, including the intricately lovely Cooper River Bridge in the distance.

We needed to stop and refuel not far past Charleston so I consulted my list of marinas, also supplied by the wondermous Salty Southeast Cruiser's Net, and we decided to stop at the Isle of Palms Marina. It wasn't terribly easy to find but they offered a great BoatUS discount and had a restaurant for those of you looking for nibbles in this area. This would be our first time docking since we left Beaufort and, given the horror stories I've read about docking, I was possibly more nervous about this than I was about Charleston. But Brian slid up to the fuel dock like he knew exactly what he was doing and the marina folks helped, so all I had to do was throw the lines to them instead of leaping off and making a complete fool of myself. Success!

Once we refueled it was time to start thinking about anchoring for the night. It was 6:35pm already and we had learned from the previous night's experience that we should anchor early to allow plenty of time for the, shall we say, challenging art of anchoring a boat.

First day on the ICW

Once we arrived in Beaufort we had many tasks to accomplish before we would be ready to embark on our trip up the ICW: finish the paperwork, do an inventory of the boat to see what we had and what we needed, gather supplies and provisions, and get fuel. All of the reading I've done indicates that the majority of cruising actually consists of working on your engine in exotic places, so I shouldn't have been surprised when our departure was delayed by, you guessed it, engine troubles. And, naturally, the trouble turned out to be one small piece of a tank that needed to be replaced. But is that possible? Of course not! No, that would be too easy and inexpensive. What we actually have to do is replace the entire tank. Fortunately for this trip that piece wasn't really necessary. So we decided to make this trip without replacing that bit and Brian turned off the grating buzzing alarm.

We had been further delayed by the scraping of the bottom of the boat. If you aren't a boat owner, or weren't a marine biology major, you've probably never given any thought to the bottom of a boat. If your boat is in the water it very quickly becomes home to a myriad of marine organisms that can produce a huge amount of drag, thereby reducing our already slow speed to a crawl and increasing our fuel consumption. Our boat hadn't been scraped in a few months so that was a job that definitely had to done before we left. The previous owner usually took it out to a sandbar and waited until the tide went out to scrape. Naturally, the low tides that week were going to be in the dark so we decided to take her out to the sandbar mid-tide in the daylight. So we took her out and anchored in about 7' of water. Brian tied one end of a rope to the front of the boat and the other end to the back. The plan was I, being the strongest swimmer, would hang onto the rope and pull myself down its length while going at the bottom of the hulls with a paint scraper.

This sounded like a great idea at the time but multiple forces worked against me: firstly, our lack of a swim ladder. When you're getting on and off the boat in the water it's a lot further down than it looks! I had to get in and out several times and my arms were turning to jelly. We fashioned a foothold with a rope but given my current lack of musculature now it wasn't much help. I was also hindered by the fact that I couldn't get a purchase anywhere. This basically resulted in my hanging onto the rope with one hand, scraping with the other, while my feet flailed around in the air and water like, I was fairly certain, a dying fish. I was cutting my hands and feet on the blasted barnacles which, let me tell you, hurt like the dickens! One of my feet was soon bleeding rather profusely and, I must admit, this didn't help the slight nervousness I already felt about whatever might be swimming underneath me. Frilly, gelatinous things floated into my mouth as I scraped them off. And all of this was further compounded by the fact that there was a fierce current running through there. When I tried to do the inside of the hulls, down the center of the boat, it got really fast and tried to suck me right through. My nerves were shot by then. I finished the front inside of the hulls and then begged Brian to let me up. It was mostly done and that was going to have to be good enough.

After 3 days in Beaufort we were finally ready to go on Friday, August 14th! We rose early the next morning, to catch the outgoing tide, but the sky was a low gray spitting lots of rain. We wouldn't be able to see a thing so we were delayed once again. But the rain cleared up by afternoon and, after a 2 hour shopping trip with Brian in KMart, we were finally able to leave around 3pm.

As we motored away from the dock we were surrounded by dolphins and they continued to be constant companions all the way up to Charleston a couple of days later. I was a mass of nerves and excitement. Binoculars around my neck I dashed from the saloon, where I checked the charts and marked our progress, to the cockpit where I watched for markers, crabpots, and dolphins. Navigating the ICW turned out to be much less scary than I expected. Basically you follow the markers and, unless one is missing, you can pretty much navigate by going from marker to marker. Even the turns we had to make weren't that confusing since we had our chartbook and charts on our Nokia N810. The depths weren't really a problem for us since our catamaran only has a 2 foot draft. However, if I had a monohull I'd be much more nervous about the depths because shallow depths weren't that unusual.

We began the day with gray skies and rain but by afternoon the gray had been washed away by sunshine and we were surrounded by beautiful scenery and wildlife all the way.

Since we had gotten such a late start we didn't get far that day and it was nearly getting dark by the time we decided to anchor. I had a list of anchorages from the Salty Southeast Cruiser's Net (a fantastic resource) and picked one out on a narrow part of the ICW (at Watt's Cut) that showed a small, shallow creek off to the right. And this is where things began to go awry. The creek, shown clear as day on the chart, was nonexistent. It was getting dark. The tide was going out. Crabpots were all around like little bombs waiting to mangle our propellor. And we were running out of time. A combination of factors - lack of anchoring experience, insufficient lighting, physical obstacles, an engine that refused to idle, and changing tides - made our first night anchoring, well, a valuable learning experience would be a positive way to put it. We spent the entire night on anchor watch, being eaten alive by mosquitoes, listening for other vessels (since we finally got anchored nearly smack in the middle of the waterway), and making sure we stayed anchored.

The boat swayed all night long with the currents. When I was on watch I nervously paced the boat with the flashlight, eyeballing the ICW marker, the crabpots, and surrounding marshes to be sure we were actually staying put. At one point, in the wee, wee hours of the morning, I sat huddled under a towel in the cockpit, trying to escape the mosquitoes and the chilling air, watching the horizon slide back and forth and wondering at how I had found myself there. Things splashed in the water around me. I tried to get a glimpse of whatever it was but never could. Brian said he saw them later and they were little fish. Bats flew all around me and I cheered them on, hoping they were devouring some of the billions of mosquitoes that were tormenting us with their buzzing and biting. Then, as I sat pondering the moonlight, the boat suddenly slid much further past the sightline I had been eyeballing. I didn't know what the heck was happening. I called Brian and he came out with me and we watched the boat warily as it settled into a new routine. We had basically swung around by probably 180 degrees for no apparent reason. The anchor was holding though and so we went back to our respective spots to finish out the night.

Brian rose with the sun that morning to work on the engine, which had been a major poophead that night because it refused to run at anything other than full throttle. The Cap'n, being the sometimes genius that he can be, had it working beautifully by the time we left the anchorage that I dubbed a name that shall not be repeated here. After very little sleep we left the anchorage in the pale light of morning, surrounded by lovely seabirds wading in the water having breakfast, as I learned how to percolate coffee on a Coleman propane burner. We motored along, me in a sleepy haze, and I pondered what the second day would bring us. I calculated the day and figured out that we probably would make Charleston that day, which I was rather aflutter with nerves about.

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We have a boat, now where do we put it?

Brian and I have now officially had a boat since early June but it has seemed a little like a dream because we hadn't set foot on it again until mid-August when we moved it from it's long-time home of Beaufort (that's BEWfert, ya'll), SC to Shallotte, NC. The trip from Beaufort to Shallotte, which takes about 3.5 hours by car, took us a leisurely 4 days to make by catamaran and was a trial by fire if ever there was one. There were too many firsts to enumerate here but they included: my first extended period of time on a boat, our first time anchoring a boat, our first time docking a boat, my first time trying to sleep on a boat, my first time living in a 27' oven and bugcatcher, and the first time either of us has seen the Intracoastal Waterway from the water rather than land. Oh! And I can't forget our first time spending a night at a marina, which was nothing short of blissful since it included my first shower in 3 days.

The ICW that I know and love, in North Carolina, is a nice stretch of water that typically runs between the beaches and 'mainland'. It's just a hop over to the ocean. The water is oceany and there is typically a nice ocean breeze. That's North Carolina. In South Carolina, which is where most of our trip was, the designers of the ICW must have been full of hooch when they planned it out because it mostly winds through the buggy, not-so-breezy backwaters of the state, which I've decided should possibly name the mosquito as its state bird. According to ICW history, however, it sounds like this stretch, which was the last part of the ICW to be constructed in its first phase, was even more torturous in the past and it has been improved at various times since its creation in 1913. The ICW actually has an interesting history but I'll leave that for you to discover on your own and will reserve this space for the tales of our trip. I will say that, even though I'm grousing quite a bit about it, there was some lovely and peaceful scenery on this short voyage and the many dolphins and birds and lovely sunsets are what stand out in my mind the most, in spite of the horrifying greenhead that I will tell you about in excruciating detail later.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. Get back, self! We started this "vacation" in the bustling metropolis of Shallotte, NC, which truly was a sleepy little town when my grandfather bought land there in the 1970's but has turned into a "real" town that has actual communities, paved roads, traffic and, of course, a Wal-Mart today. When we arrived in Shallotte we planned to go retrieve our boat in a few days but still had no idea WHERE we were going to bring it. A detail that some people might think was pretty important. My new, less-prone-to-anxiety, self didn't have my underwear in a wad though because I knew that things would somehow work out and they surely did. Long story short, we spoke with a super nice lady that was working in her yard one afternoon before leaving for Beaufort and our boat is now docked at her house in Shallotte on the Shallotte River. It's a lovely spot overlooking the marshes and I'd give anything to be sitting in the cockpit with a glass of wine right now.

Dinghy on a downwind haul...AKA Wheeeeee!

The PIC (partner in crime) and I have been hauling our dinghy to the lake quite a bit since it fell into our laps a few weeks ago. Getting it there has been an adventure in and of itself and then, once there, we have usually found that there was the barest puff of a wind. Somehow there seems to be a dome covering the lake area that keeps all wind out except during dramatic thunderstorms. Then it will rush through making the tree tops sway frighteningly over your house and then disappear as quickly as it came.


This past Saturday we looked at the weather forecast and whooped with excitement when we saw the predicted windspeeds. 11mph!!! Now that is some real wind. So we rolled the dinghy to the lake and the wind was blowing so hard that it whipped the sail around as soon as we put the mast up. We lashed it around the mast to keep it still until we got further out into the cove. I was excited but not the least bit alarmed. Until we decided to put the sail out that is. I was at the helm and as soon as the sail was out the wind grabbed it and it felt like a giant hand was trying to push us over. I realized I was out of my element and traded places with Brian.


We then spent many happy hours sailing fairly steadily from one end of the lake to the other. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful hot summer day and then.....POOF....the wind disappeared almost completely while we were at the far end of the lake. Capricious hussy. So there we were in our 10' sailboat mostly bobbing in the water with dark clouds looming up behind us and our beach much too far away. It was late afternoon and the perfect time for a summer thunderstorm. Folks in their powerboats motored by us and laughed. At one point I'm pretty sure I saw a turtle swim alongside that also pointed and laughed before swimming away and leaving us in its wake. We had managed to drift about a nanometer before Brian finally gave in and started paddling with our daggerboard. More people went by in their boats and laughed but we were making actual progress now. Still, even the main beach seemed far, far away and our own beach was even further past that.


The sky was conflicted. On the right it was bright and blue, but bright and blue's evil twin, dark and ominous, threatened to our left in addition to the ones at our backs. The fact that people were now asking if we were okay and needed help didn't do anything to ease my anxiety. Then the wind from the approaching storm finally decided to show up and instantaneously we went from Are We Ever Going To Get There to Hold Onto Your Collar Toto! I was back at the helm by this time, while my poor PIC laboriously paddled us along, and I think I might have uttered a bad word or two when I felt the wind grab the sail and nearly tip us over. But this time I knew what to do! I let the sail out all the way and we went zooming across the lake like a bullet. We were probably going 5-7 knots in our little dinghy on a downwind haul. The water got choppy, the wind was gusty, and the rudder was suddenly so sensitive the barest movement sent us veering off-course. But I managed to keep her steady and got us back to our cove lickety-split. I handled it quite well, if I do say so myself. And, I must say, it's pretty exhilarating to go flying across the water under windpower. We had a great day on the water and didn't spend a cent on fuel and didn't pollute a thing.

Man vs. Mole: The Release

In the last installment of Man vs. Mole the Mole Hunter had prevailed and captured two moles which, after a day or so of mole patrol, we determined were the only culprits on our premises. Friday found us trekking up the street with our mole containment unit to some vacant lots and trails that lead to our local beach, where we released our new furry pals in a nicely damp and wormy-looking patch of dirt. I was proud of my Mole Hunter for finding a non-lethal method of ridding ourselves of the cute, but pesky, varmints. Alas, after some follow-up mole patrol yesterday, the MH informed me that there were signs of activity in the front yard. So the Mole Hunter is back on the job.

Now on to another topic entirely, but one of my favorites, books. I am a librarian by trade - probably one by birth really - and possibly emerged from the womb waving a book and begging someone to read to me. I have recently been culling my book collection, since it would likely sink the boat, and it is proving to be a painful process. Amputees often feel phantom limbs and I wonder if I will experience phantom books from now on? I have joined a book blogs group, and have actually been friended by a few people, so I'm thinking maybe I should actually start mentioning some books in this here blog. My life of late hasn't allowed for much lounging about with book in one hand and bonbons in the other but I have been rereading a recent favorite of mine, Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. There aren't many books that I will read more than once but his laugh-out-loud style always brings me back for more. Sedaris is also known for his commentary on NPR's This American Life and Me Talk Pretty One Day was on the bestseller list for, well, a long time or, at least, quite a while. Nothing all that exciting happens in Sedaris' books but his wry humor and sarcasm can make a walk to the mailbox entertaining. One of my favorite quotes from MTPOD (on growing up gay):

When asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, we hid the truth and listed the people we wanted to sleep with when we grew up. "A policeman or a fireman or one of those guys who works with high tension wires."

Surprisingly, I find that I am laughing just as much as I did the first time I read this personal treasure. So, if you haven't given David Sedaris a try, do your funnybone a favor and pick up one of his books soon. 

Man vs. Mole, Part Deux

The man versus mole saga continues and in this installment man is triumphant! Yes, the great Mole Hunter persevered and has been rewarded with the capture of not one, but two, hostages. We are currently keeping them as pets, and as a warning to any remaining family members, in our specially purposed pet mole containment unit.


We plan to implement a mole catch and release program, but not until we are certain all moles have either been captured or have vacated the premises upon seeing the fates of their kinmoles. Currently, we are keeping a steady supply of worms in the mole cooler and they seem to be content enough. The cat isn't allowed into the bedroom but the moles slumbered next to us on the floor last night in their cooler by the bed. I am an animal lover in the extreme, except for anything with more than six legs, and am a worrywort to boot, so I am worried that the moles might not survive their captivity. When I got up this morning I lifted the lid to the mole cooler and one of them was actually lying completely still on top of the dirt. He was so cute and furry and I was afraid we had lost him. Brian, with his usual blithe certitude, assured me the little guy was fine and, sure enough, when I checked later he had burrowed back into the dirt.

So the Mole Hunter has emerged victorious but continues his mole patrols today to make sure all offenders have been apprehended.


Aren't they cute? And, in case you didn't know, moles have very, very soft fur. You should definitely pet one if you ever get the chance.

Did you know?

Moles can dig up to 18 feet of surface tunnels per hour?

Moles can travel through their tunnels at speeds of 80' per minute through existing tunnels? It'd take a mighty good radar detector to give him a ticket.

A large collection of mole burrows is called a citadel? Isn't that charming?

A mole travels through its citadel of tunnels using a movement similar to the breaststroke.

Moles eat 70 to 80 percent of their weight every day.

Moles can be dangerous? They have apparently caused at least one famous death, that of King William III (William of Orange). Granted, I found this information online, but seemingly reputable sources say that the unfortunate William died after being thrown from his horse, which had stumbled over...you guessed it...a mole hill.

The star nose mole is perhaps one of the strangest animals I've ever seen...brace yourself...

Kozmik kizmet

Brian and I have been causing some excitement in the neighborhood recently by rolling our new Walker Bay dinghy to the nearest beach for some time on some water. We've been stopped many times by folks who believe we are literally dragging the boat up the road. No, we tell them, it has a wheel in the keel. I can only imagine what people must think when they look out their windows and see a couple pulling a boat up the road.

The story of how we found our dinghy is a great example of how things work out for us. We had decided we really wanted a Walker Bay 10 dinghy with a sailing kit. We were checking Craigslist and a few came up for sale, but too far away, and costly. I figured we wouldn't find one for less than $1000 if it included the sail kit. I also figured we'd have to make do with something else until we could find one, but I should have known one would just naturally come our way. A couple of weekends ago we found ourselves at the marina, to pick up some books for a boating class, and Brian walked over to take a gander at the small bulletin board. A moment later he called me over. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw the small, faded ad for a Walker Bay 10 dinghy. We called the number as soon as we got home - I was afraid the ad was old and it had been sold - but no, it was still available. And it included the sail kit! We went to get it the next day and, that evening, Brian sailed it over to our beach.

Has there ever been a time when things just seemed to happen exactly as you wanted them to?

Man vs. Mole

He has the tools....




He has the will....




But does he have what it takes to defeat....

The Mole?

Yes, we have a new guest in the back yard and, not unlike some humans, he doesn't seem to be getting the hint that he is unwanted. Brian has been monitoring the situation for a couple of days now, and even got a brief glimpse of our furry little invader yesterday, but so far the mole as eluded him.

Score so far...
Man: 0
Mole: 2

But the beer helps ease the sting of defeat for a while.

The siren song of electronics

I never thought I could get turned on by navigational equipment. And if you've ever had the same thought then you've probably never seen the CPV550! This beauty will do almost everything but make your morning coffee. And I'm betting Brian could figure out a way to make it do that too if we wanted. Now if I can just get my own weather radar! I'm pretty sure I've heard a saying that boating is a rich man's sport and I'm beginning to see how this saying came about, because nothing that goes on a boat is bargain priced. I knew to expect this but I thought I'd swallow my own tongue when I saw that even the charts are over 100 bucks! And just for one small area. You'd think for that amount you could at least get from Virginia to Florida but, no, the one we bought the other day only got us from the northern coast of NC to the middle part of Virginia! This is how a typical conversation goes between me and Brian nowadays: Brian: "Baby, look at this great radar!" Me: "That is a great radar! How much is it?" Brian: "$1250." Me: "Of course it is." Brian: "Baby, check out these cool binoculars. They have a built-in compass!" Me: "Those are cool binoculars! How much are they?" Brian: "$897." Me: "Of course they are." These days I find myself thinking something is a bargain if it's much under $1000 and I'm usually a bargain-shopper extraordinaire. Alas, I don't think I'm going to find any boating equipment at my local Big Lots.

Step 1: Buy a boat

7 months and 30 days ago I spent a lovely day at the Annapolis Boat Show with a friend from high school and his son. We spent the day climbing around beautiful boats, fondling their teak trimmings and chatting about his plans to buy a liveaboard catamaran. That day, I tried to ignore how much I was loving his company and how envious I was of his plans. Now Brian and I have a catamaran and I am an integral part of those plans. My how fast things can happen! After several months of research we were growing weary of what sometimes felt like a fruitless search. Many of the catamarans we wanted, especially Catalacs, were overseas and I didn’t particularly relish the thought of beginning our adventures in England. Not that I don’t want to go to England. It’s actually one of the top places I want to visit. But part of the reason we’re getting a boat is to be warm and England isn’t exactly a tropical paradise. But this past Sunday we found a Catalac for sale in South Carolina! Not only was it in the US but it was on our coast! We were super stoked and we could both feel it in our bones. This was our boat! We spent several hours inspecting every inch of her Monday afternoon. We went for a ride that evening as the sun set over the water. Dolphins were all around us and it was all I could do not to shout out, then and there, “WE’LL TAKE IT!” Truly, if you want to sell a boat quickly there are two things you can do to ensure it: 1) make sure it’s a Catalac you’re selling 2) arrange for a dolphin escort when you take the prospective buyers for a ride.

And here she is...Kozmik Kaos!

She requires a lot of equipping and isn’t quite ready for voyaging yet but we’re going to have a lot of fun getting her ready! First, though, we have to bring her home from beautiful Beaufort, SC and that will start us off with quite an adventure I’m sure.