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.
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.
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