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.
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.
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.
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.
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