DID THEY MAKE IT?

Brunswick, GA 31º9.270N | 81º29.975W

If you've "liked" our ploddingINparadise Facebook page, you already know the answer to that, but here's the story:

When I flew back to Ft. Lauderdale from New Mexico back in May, I had a fantasy about west wind and glassy seas allowing us to make a 3-day offshore passage all the way to the Georgia border. My fantasy was fully realized only, as usual, I didn't have the foresight to wish for everything. I forgot to hope for west wind and glassy seas with NO SQUALLS. We've had an amazingly long spell of offshore west wind, but the actual weather has been nasty. We couldn't make a single offshore hop in the last three weeks. If you've been reading, you know our last few days have been trying weatherwise. And then there was today.

First, can I just say, my husband is awesome. I'll tell you one of the many reasons later.

Second, finally, the weather prediction was right about last night.

To review, we were anchored in a narrow creek in shallow water with no real wind protection and not enough anchor chain, which means at any moment we could have been adrift, requiring us to throw on foulies, start the engine, and re-anchor in the dead black of night. All was well until about 11 p.m. when the howling wind woke us up as a big squall came rushing down Shellbine Creek. Chip checked the wind indicator, and it was clocking in the mid 20s, gusting higher. It always sounds worse at night.

To make things more nerve-jangling, this nasty squall hit right at high (6-foot) tide, the optimal time for our short anchor chain to be vulnerable. We both prowled around looking out hatches to see if we were dragging, but in the pitch black, there were only two points of reference, the flashing green mark at the east end of the creek and the anchor light of another anchored boat in an adjacent creek (assuming they weren't dragging). Under full cloud cover and pouring rain, it was hard to judge. The iPad offered some reassurance, showing our exact location on the chart using GPS. That awesome Georgia mud and our Delta anchor were sticking together.

That first squall lasted about an hour, and thankfully had no lightning. We went back to sleep and were wakened once again at 2:15 by the howling wind. Another squall, this one bigger and more enduring. In fact, the wind didn't actually let up this time.

Before going to bed, we had studied the tide and current charts to make our plan for crossing the dreaded Saint Andrew's Sound. For the last week, mornings have been relatively squall-free, so we decided to shoot for low tide, an early morning dash. Not ideal, but nothing has been ideal the last few days. Done is better than ideal.

The alarm went off at 5:45 before the predawn haze. We raised the anchor at 6:15 just before the sun rose on several inauspicious signs. First, when I was raising the anchor with the windlass, the voltage dropped so low that we lost power briefly. Then, once the anchor was up, Chip threw the throttle forward, but nothing happened. We were aground. The rising water or luck or something changed, and then we moved. For folks who look for signs, this was not a good start. I took the helm for the first shift and headed to the end of the creek toward that flashing green mark we used to reassure ourselves that we weren't dragging anchor in the dead of night.

As I turned out of the creek, toward the Sound, it was into the face of 25 knots of wind and surprisingly big swell, shocking really, coming straight at us, much larger than yesterday. I hadn't seen Cara Mia hobby horse like that since the Tongue of the Ocean in the Bahamas. I was at the helm, and I only got about a quarter mile before I turned back. We dropped anchor in the same spot, despondent and exhausted.

I emailed our friend G.W. to see if he could make sense of this "10-15 knots with light chop" situation, which was in fact 20-25 with 6-8 foot swell -- before we even reached the open water. I asked if he could tell where it was headed using his weather resources. Would it move out today? Tomorrow?

He had mentioned the day before that there was an alternate route across the Sound, so I started investigating.

In that chart above, the common route is the one on the right, heading right out under the ocean's skirt. The wind had been blowing in the 20s from the northeast for at least 24 hours, which means the swell had plenty of time to build.

We were anchored at A2 in Shellbine Creek. The red line on the left is the alternate route through Floyd Creek, a reportedly shallow, shoaly passage.

High tide was at 1:00, so if there was any chance to make it through Floyd, we would need to leave soon after 10 to ensure we made it through on a rising tide (so if we ran aground, water was on the way to lift us off). We synchronized our watches, set the alarm for 10 a.m. and went to sleep.

At 10, Chip hailed for local knowledge on Channel 16. A tugboat captain volunteered that it was bad in St. Andrew's, and he himself found the swell too big and was ditching through Floyd. Another sailboat hailed us to say they were out in the Sound at that moment making the turn between the shoals fielding 6-8 foot rollers on the beam.

Yeah, no thanks.

We were surprised to hear from that boat, because it was one of the ones we assumed had crossed yesterday when we had turned back. They too felt conditions were iffy, but they anchored with several other boats in the spot that we felt was too exposed. They reported a dreadful night with anchors dragging and tangling, big swell, miserable. At least we made one good choice, although deep in the night, with a squall bearing down, I wondered if we should have buckled down and pushed through the Sound. If so, we would have been tucked safely in a marina slip in Brunswick ... in a marina slip in Brunswick ... in a marina slip in Brunswick.

With real-time reports from the Sound, we made our decision to go through the backwaters of Floyd, I checked my email and found corroborating info on the weather  and the viability of Floyd Creek from G.W., so, once again, we raised the anchor and headed out. It had stopped raining and the sky to the north was encouragingly bright. Chip took the first shift and as we headed again out of Shellbine Creek, dolphins surfaced all around us. Mm hmm, that's what I'm talkin' about, a good omen.

As we headed toward the first curve in Floyd, that tugboat captain who advised us earlier came barreling toward us. He was even bigger than we imagined:

If he thought the swell was too big, we had no business messing about there either.

While Chip wormed us through the winding creek, I went below to stow, anticipating big swell in the open Sound, because even though we weren't going out to the tip, we still had to cross it further inland. Floyd turned out to be lovely and not particularly shallow. Chip never saw less than 10 feet at high tide, so most boats could pass at high tide with no problem.

We rounded into the Sound right at noon, an hour short of slack (unmoving) tide and could feel the swell. With an hour of tide still coming in, it was slow going through 5-6 foot swell, but we could hug the south side of the Sound until it lessened. Then we had to cross.

Guess who's watch came just before the crossing? Yes. Why me?

This is the part where I can tell you how awesome Chip is: He volunteered to take my watch all the way across. Perhaps he was really just guarding against my turning back a third time (!), but I loved him for it. Really, he felt bad that this entire week I've been drawing the bad shifts. He knew my nerves were frazzled, and he was being heroically nice. Thanks, Chip.

When you're in rolly conditions, the GPS takes a long time to react to the movement, so if you're accustomed to solely navigating by looking at the computer screen, well, no good. I used the binoculars to spot bouncing marks that weren't bouncing but looked like they were in the bumpy water. I used the iPad and its GPS to make sure we were on track.

Chip steered us smoothly in the big swell, which kept moderating as we made the 5-mile trek down the Sound. By the time we reached the tip of Jekyll, it was down to big chop (fine, we'll take it).

We made an easy pass inside of Jekyll and turned west, thrilled to approach the bridge in Brunswick.

We were feeling transcendent. Smooth water, sun. The only other blip on our horizon was this:

Two adolescent girls in incredibly tiny sailboats, far out in the Brunswick River. Not such a big deal except that the tide had turned on them, moving swiftly out to sea. Even we were slogging against it in our big boat with an engine. They were struggling.

I hailed the Coast Guard to make sure someone knew they were out there. The Coast Guard had a boat nearby and went to investigate.

And, at long last, we headed up the channel to our new home under sunny skies and only a breath of wind. We glided into our slip, turned off the engine and, just to make this day a little more emotion-packed, we drank a toast to my old friend, Dale, gone now too long to be believed.

Dale's commemorative wine.

The lesson here: Don't take the ICW lightly. This week dealt us some real challenges. When you go out on the water, you have to be ready for whatever awaits.

We've fielded everything thrown at us and arrived, safe, tired and happy, at peace in Brunswick.

Georgia -- and Paris -- on our minds.

CONTINUING SAGA

Shellbine Creek, GA 30º54.770N | 81º29.663W

This morning dawned overcast and spitting rain, but we have a bead on Brunswick, only 30 miles north, our final stop for the next few months as we hunker down the boat for hurricane season and prepare for our month in Paris. Let's just say, with all the weather challenges of the last few days, tucking into a quiet, safe marina sounded like paradise.

We lifted the anchor and pulled across the channel for a fuel-up when they opened at 7 a.m. Are manatees good luck? Not sure, but it was thrilling to watch this gentle, whale-like manatee having a little spa moment in the warm runoff from our exhaust.

Ah, warm water.

Off we went, optimistic and fixated on free laundry and hot showers. Rounding the northern end of Amelia Island, at the St. Mary's inlet, the clouds were making a beautiful display beyond the fort.

But the reason they were so dramatic is that a stationary front has been sticking like velcro across the Georgia-Florida border, causing wind, rain, squalls and a puzzle for the weather predictors, who keep getting it wrong, wrong, wrong. We desperately wanted to get north of the ridge, and we weren't the only ones. We spoke to several other boats along the way who were on the same mission.

It was with a certain sense of foreboding that I looked north at the dark clouds, a backdrop for an equally foreboding nuclear power plant. Soon it was raining. Then it was pouring. We kept plodding. At least it wasn't blowing. Yet.

Today's hurdle, and the last real obstacle between us and Brunswick: St. Andrew's Sound, at the northern tip of Cumberland Island (the lower right tip on that chart) and Jekyll Island just to the north. The first time we traversed St. Andrew's, I was shocked that the "intracoastal waterway" took us basically out into the ocean, through shallow water between two shoals. We have passed that way twice, both times it was like gliding on glass.

As we inched our way north, it was apparent that the Sound would not be glassy. The wind started picking up from the northeast, which would leave that Sound terribly exposed. (Outer Bankers: Imagine the Albemarle Sound open to the ocean with a stiff northeast wind.) The wind had just clocked around from the west, so perhaps, just perhaps, the swell hadn't had time to build up.

My shift came up as we were approaching the Sound (of course, sigh), just as the Cumberland River was widening.

We were almost to A1 on that map, which is an anchorage inside Cumberland Island.

Dark clouds ahead.

Let's review: We are approaching an exposed sound. The wind is now a steady 25, gusting higher. It's pouring rain. Visibility is bad. The heavy swell is already starting.

Here's the soundtrack going through my head:
--I used up a good amount of boat karma getting through the St. John's River yesterday.
--We just fueled up, and if, on the off-chance, we got bad fuel, getting tossed around in the sound would mean dead engine.
--Brunswick and safe harbor is only 20 miles away! Can you just please, please let us through?
--Anchorages available are okay, but squalls are predicted overnight.
--Will tomorrow -- or the day after -- be any better?
--The Cumberland anchorage on the southern tip of the island is well protected but at least two hours behind us.
--AAAAARRGGHHHHHH!

To add further to the frustration, the weather prediction had been for 10-15 knot wind and light chop, so it's not like we chose this.

I was at the helm, and on our boat, whoever is helming is captain. After rolling all the options around in my head for awhile, I chose the toughest option of all: I turned the boat around. It's defeating. You know you're backtracking, and to add further to the defeat and second-guessing, other boats were going on ahead. (That used to bother me a lot more than it does now. Let them have the crappy conditions.) The bottom line: we're supposed to be having fun. Unfortunately, 'fun' wasn't available in any of our bad options at that point.

We had an extended discussion about the anchorage marked A1. Coincidentally, we had tried to anchor there two years ago and didn't like it, even in fair weather. Instead we went back a tedious two miles, 45 minutes, to Shellbine Creek, on the lower left of the chart above and here's a closeup.

We anchored above the green one, about where the 9 is.

Looking at the chart, you think, oh, that will be so protected, but that's the first lesson we learned about Georgia anchorages two years ago: they are in marshland. Shellbine is a little creek running through marsh grass. No trees, hills, nothing. So, no wind block and very narrow, but good old Georgia mud that swallows the anchor like quicksand.

We found a spot in the creek that was only six feet deep at low tide, which helped our anchor chain ratio (supposed to be up to 10 times the depth, especially in heavy weather). With the creek being so narrow, we could only put out about 70 feet of chain, and, get this: six feet of tide, which would put us in 12 feet of water with only 70 feet of chain with wind in the mid 20s and squalls predicted overnight. The best I could do was put out extra snubber line (a rope hooked to the anchor chain that drops the pressure point well below the waterline, which helps the anchor to stay dug in).

The cushy night at a marina? Not tonight. Not for us. Could be a long one.

THE SHORT STICK

Fernandina Beach, FL 30º40.388N | 81º28.061W

"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!" --Daily Affirmation with Stuart Smalley (Saturday Night Live)

Okay, today was not my best day. We trade off two-hour shifts at the helm when we're on the ICW. Today, somehow, I got all the "bad" shifts.

First, I was off watch when a big squall marched over us from behind. How is that bad? I took the helm while Chip wrestled with the jib, which we were taking down about 5 minutes too late. The lines got away and twangled all around each other, which required taking the boat out of gear in case we had lines in the water (lines can easily get tangled up in the prop). Fortunately the staysail was flying, and there was plenty of wind to keep us moving, 30 gusting to 35. It was pouring rain.

That's when I realized that in my rush to help above decks, I had left the salon hatch open -- with my laptop open right under it. Chip took the wheel, and I bolted below to close the hatch and assess the damage. The couch was soaked right up to about 6 inches before my laptop. Whew.

By that time, the wind had dropped down into the 20s, so I suited up and went forward to assess the jib sheet (ropes) situation.

I got them secured but not completely unwound. We trekked on, engine now running.

My shift came up, and I looked ahead to see how far we were from the dreaded St. John's River crossing. It's always nerve-wracking, because the current is swift, but now we had wind blowing with the current.

That chart shows the area we had to transit, the red line being our path. You basically skim through gushing water between a shoal and rocks, literally a rock and a hard place.

Of course, the St. John's came right before the end of my shift. Chip heroically offered to take over, but I am Woman, I won't whimper. I was nervous, but I knew I could handle it.

As I approached the river, I could feel the current pick us up. With the motor and staysail, we were going 6.6 kph, which is about 1.6 faster than normal. Then I faced a decision. I knew the wind would be pushing me to starboard (the right) toward the rocks. The current would also be pushing me strongly that way.

I decided to take down the sail.

My thought was this: It would have helped with forward momentum and traction in the water and been a good backup if something happened to the engine. However, first, it would also be pushing me toward the rocks and, second, I knew I would have to turn as much as 40 degrees to port to keep momentum away from the rocks. That would render the sail not only useless but send it flapping, adding stress and distraction at a key moment. I knew I would be tempted to turn off the wind to keep the sail from luffing, essentially taking my eye off the goal.

Was taking it down the right decision? I don't know.

I crept up to the crossing with a dry mouth, hoping it would be easier than anticipated. The wind was a steady 20-25 on the port beam. The current was cranking. I had to point almost upstream, directly into the wind, to keep forward progress without slipping toward the rocks.

I made it. I didn't like it.

The whole day was intense. Squalls, strong wind, crappy conditions. Watches were tense. We dropped anchor in Fernandina, one of our favorite towns, and didn't even go ashore.

It wasn't my best day, but I'm a good person. I'm a happy person, doggonit.

One more 30-mile trek to Brunswick tomorrow, and we are done with the flukey weather!

Your turn. What would you have done approaching the St. John's? Do you think I made the right decision? 

THE THREE SLUGS

Rodriguez Key, FL 24º03.523N | 80º27.254W

Dropping anchor west of Boot Key.

We left the mooring in Boot Key Harbor yesterday midafternoon to fuel up, fill the water tank, and then anchor off the west end of Boot Key for an easy takeoff this morning. All good.

As we approached the dock at Burdine's Marina, it was clear we were with wind and current. Bad. (Lesson learned on several occasions: Don't do it.) So we opted to turn around. Bad. Actually the decision was good. The spot was bad.

The current funnels right at the marina, and as soon as we were broadside, the wind and current started carrying us right toward this:

Chip did a masterful job of keeping us from hitting anything, even though we tried to hit a lot of things. At one point, our bow inched out just missing that schooner bowsprit.

I was making my way around the deck, ready to fend off anything that came my way, but I never had to push off.

If you look really, really close, like I did, you'll see that the very tip of that bowsprit has a red star on it. From the bow, I gave it a little squeeze -- without even reaching very far. Yep, that close. YIKES.

So, we never did get turned around there. We went all the way down to the end of the channel and came all the way back, pulled up to the dock pretty as you please, against wind and current. Good.

The fuel was expensive. They charged us for water. We took our 'free' ice, but it made the refrigerator unit freak out (still not sure why), so we turned it off for the night and now have an enormous glob of ice in there. Bad juju on that stop.

We anchored mostly uneventfully, although not restfully, and left early. Cara Mia felt like a slow-moving walrus. The engine, what little we used it, was sluggish.

The water was pleasantly smooth with 2-3 foot waves, wind was decent, 14-18 knots, more than predicted (imagine that, she says sarcastically). In this case, a misprediction worked in our favor!

This boat sails much better with minimal heel, so we put a reef in (shortened the mainsail) about midday. It was blowing just short of where we could point, so we had to tack south, backtracking a little, every 5 miles or so. Cara Mia did great. Her crew was tired, fumbling around, tripping, oversteering on tacks (me), never satisfied with sail trim (Chip). Once a jib sheet (rope) caught a boat hook, and I had to stop mid-tack while Chip went forward to retrieve it, jib lines flying all around his head. The dinghy slowly deflated as the day got cooler, loosening the straps and moving about.

It took us just over 11 hours to go 45 nautical miles, slow enough to cause a murderous road rage for some, a slow sail with no engine to us.

Rodriguez Key, home for the night.

We are anchored in Rodriguez Key on clear, placid water. We lowered the dinghy to inflate it, and, while we were at it, have a look at the prop.

No wonder we had such a hard time turning around in wind and current! Chip will be up first light to scrape Boot Key stowaways off the prop for there will certainly be some motoring tomorrow if the wind prediction is right. Ha.

Pre-reefing. Hot dogs anyone?

*love*

Our chichi Rodriguez neighborhood. Anchored next to a Trumpey (I think).

OH SHEET

Black Point, Exumas 24º6.04N | 76º24.12W

Anchorage at Black Point Settlement on Great Guana Cay.

Sailing is a humbling occupation offering infinite ways to challenge, confound and embarrass yourself. It's like the first day of school or a new job -- every day -- rife with new opportunities to prove you're an amateur. It is not possible to be bored, because you're waiting to see what will go wrong next.

Today's forecast called for 10-12 knot winds from the northeast, dropping and shifting to southeast mid- to late afternoon. We left Sampson for a short, less than 10-mile, hop to Black Point just before 9 a.m. to take advantage of favorable winds.

Leaving the anchorage we headed southwest-ish looking resplendent flying the main and jib side by side in my favorite point of sail, wing on wing.

As we turned south around Sandy Cay, it was apparent that the wind was already shifting to the southeast, which would be, of course, right in our face on the next turn. We headed out into the Exuma Banks hoping to be able to tack back toward Black Point once we passed Harvey Cay, sailing the whole way.

We never saw the predicted 10-12 knots, rather 15 at first soon picking up to 20+ with squalls on the horizon ahead. Chip was thrilled to find he could get Cara Mia moving at almost 8 knots despite my complaints about weather helm.

This concludes the peaceful portion of the sail.

Next we had a fight about, well, we're not really sure. That's how those married fights go.

Then we decided to reef, using our new, untried reefing rig.

When we turned into the wind, the jib got away from us, flapping like a coop full of scared hens and just as noisy. The jib lines got all twangled, around themselves and in the standing rigging. You don't really notice how much stuff there is overhead on a sailboat until it all starts weaving itself around each other. That took some time to wrestle under control.

Then the new reefing ring kept coming off the new horn that was supposed to hold the now-smaller sail in place. Put it back on. It comes off again. Repeat.

Everything finally started working harmoniously, just as the wind dropped down below 10 knots right outside Black Point harbor.

That's when I noticed the the entire back seam of the jib had ripped out while it was flapping in the wind.

If you look closely, you can see
 the leech line dangling behind the jib.

We pulled in the sails and humbly dropped anchor in Black Point, happy that our boat performs flawlessly even when we don't.

A BRIDGE HALF OPEN

Stuart, FL 27º11.826N | 80º15.682W

In general, I believe any day that starts hunched over the toilet is not gonna be a good one.

Our plan for this day was to make our final, short trek down the Intracoastal Waterway to Lake Worth where we plan to make a hop down to Miami outside in the ocean. The ICW between Stuart and Lake Worth is punctuated by ten bridges that either open on demand or are on alternating scheduled openings, some on the half hours, some on quarters, so we knew there could be a lot of fits and starts.

All we wanted was to get the ICW behind us, once and for all. Our last rite of passage.

Not so easy.

After a crappy few hours unstopping the toilet, we left the marina and ran smack into a grumpy bridge tender, who wouldn't answer to the bridge name we had successfully called the previous day. Busting my chops already?

Then about three miles past the bridge a man hailed us on the VHF. When I answered he went on a four-minute yelling screed -- on Channel 16 for everyone to hear -- about how we had waked him on his motoryacht as we passed his marina. ("Waked" means going fast enough to create a wave behind your boat, called a wake, which can cause damage.)

It's hard not to laugh at the possibility of us creating a damaging wake along the ICW where boats constantly fly through wreaking havoc with their wakes, especially since we can create a larger wake with our dinghy than we can with the boat.

Deep breath. Onward. The Coast Guard then made an announcement about a problem with the bridge we were approaching. Now, I don't know how the Coast Guard selects who will make their radio announcements, but it seems to be the same selection process used to hire McDonald's drive-through window employees. What?!?!?!? What did they say?!?!?

So, I start hailing the bridge to find out what horrors we might be approaching, hoping we were not going to be turned back.

I hailed "Jupiter Bridge" and hailed again. And hailed and hailed. Finally a dispassionate voice come on saying, "Are you hailing the Jupiter 707 Bridge?"

"Yes." Nothing. "Jupiter 707 Bridge, this is Cara Mia."

"Bridge here."

"Can I have an opening!?!?!"

Sheesh. Second chops-busting of the day from a bridge tender. He didn't even respond when I thanked him.

So, after passing through Mr. Grumpy II's bridge our next peril loomed up about 50 yards ahead: a dredger right in our path at a turn where a heavy current was running. It was unclear how to pass them, and they too did not answer hails on the radio. We guessed. We guessed right.

As we passed the dredger I hailed the next bridge about 100 yards ahead, only to be advised by Mr. Nice bridge tender that he was happy to have us, but his bridge only opened on one side. At least he was nice about it.

We then entered the group of bridges that opened on a timed basis. The first one acknowledged us and two other boats traveling with us, and said that the opening was imminent. We waited and waited, idled, reversed, pivoted, waited. Finally the horn sounded. We waited. The bridge started moving and so did we. But wait! Have you ever seen a bridge open that slowly? We idled and reversed and pivoted again until we could safely lurch through hugging the port side. Whew.

At the next bridge, we were second in line behind a sailboat, and the tender told us this was another malfunctioning, half opening bridge. At this point it was hard not to see our bridge as half closed.

With the same sailboat in front of us we motored toward yet another timed bridge as a large sportfishing yacht pulled between us. At the same time I could hear a sportfisher approaching from the opposite direction asking if he could fit under the bridge with "23-foot outriggers." He decided to wait for the opening.

As we were all idling, pivoting, reversing, Chip said, "Is that a flashing light on top of that boat?"

We took a look with the binoculars and could see that the boat waiting on the opposite side of the bridge had his big-ass Furuno radar spinning -- in the ICW. There is NO reason to have radar on in the ICW on a clear, sunny day. None. Laughable.

So, once the bridge opened, I could see the sailboat start forward, because everyone on our side had the right of way since we were traveling with the current. Just as we started moving, I looked ahead to see the sailboat turned sideways just on our side of the bridge.

The sportfisher with his outriggers and spinning radar was barreling on through the bridge opening, right of way or no.

The bridge tender came on the VHF: "Sir, you need to take a boating right of way class."

Someone else chimed in after him: "And you can turn off that radar too!"

The very last bridge held only minor thrills as it was around a sharp turn with swift side current and heavy traffic, but we made it. Triumphant. Goodbye ICW.

We anchored near our friends on Jessie Marie at the mouth of Lake Worth Inlet, poised for an easy escape. I checked my email to find an insurance claim had been filed against us for waking the large motor yacht.

Determined to pull out a good day, we had our friends over for home-cooked pizza, wine and laughs, then set the alarm for 2 a.m. to watch the lunar eclipse. Beautiful.

Thanks, Gio!     Photo credit: Giovanni Calabro

Lake Worth, FL 26º45.935N | 80º02.601W

I didn't see any peanuts, but they got the shack part right.

Palm Beach across the water.

DAYTONA SPEEDAWAY

Daytona, FL 29º12.309N | 81º00.878W

Cara Mia and Serenity, side by side in Daytona. Photo by G.W. Meadows.

Today started out all rodeo and ended all hurry up and wait -- with a lot of BRRR in between.

We left Daytona in raw cold this morning with another rodeo maneuver (see the mooring ball rodeo reference). If you look at the photo above, the marina exit is to the left, so we had to pull out with the stern going toward Serenity. Unfortunately two things were pushing us the other way: the wind and prop walk.

With Chip at the helm, I untied the docklines, and he started backing out. The stern showed zero interest in going to starboard, so I took one of the now-free docklines and flung it, lasso style, around that back starboard piling by Serenity and pulled like I was taming a bull, walking forward along the deck and pulling until the stern ever so slowly swung to starboard allowing the bow to clear that big motoryacht. Whew. High fives all around.

You wouldn't believe how many layers of clothes I'm wearing. BRRR.

The hop to Titusville was not long, but, boy, was it cold. It was mid-30s and gusty when we left the dock. Thank god for those little air-activated hand warmers. I had one in each glove, one in my hat and two in my shoes.

Daytona skyline on a chilly December morning.

There was supposed to be a private rocket launch at Cape Canaveral this morning @ 9, which would have put us in the front row. Alas it was postponed until tomorrow. I'm pretty sure that tall thin tower (below) is the rocket waiting for liftoff.

Bad photo of Cape Canaveral in the chilly haze.

The chilly weather inspired me to turn on the oven, so I made Mexican Cornbread Skillet for lunch.

And Chip was inspired to take a picture of it.

The path to Titusville was fairly benign and ended just after the NASA railroad bridge, listed as "usually open" in the guides. We approached the bridge, which was only a few hundred yards before our marina, at around 2 p.m., relieved to be tucking in before the wind was predicted to kick up.

The two sailboats ahead of us went right up to the bridge, then turned around and started heading back toward us. What?!?!?

The bridge attendant then announced on the VHF that they were working on the bridge, and the barge had blocked all but a 10-foot opening, "maybe a little more." Our boat is just over 13 feet wide.

It would be "about an hour" before the work was complete.

This was about the time the wind picked up, and all the boats we had passed came up behind us. Traffic jam!

Thus began a long hour of maneuvering in a very narrow channel cut through a very shallow Indian River with the wind gusting in the 20s. It was my watch, but Chip heroically offered to take the helm. He idled and motored enough to keep us in the channel while some of the 12 or so other boats actually dropped an anchor.

Boats biding a chilly hour waiting for work to be completed on the Nasa Railroad Bridge near Titusville, FL.

After almost exactly an hour, they cleared us through, and we all made a mad dash (at sailboat speed) to the marina.

Once tied up, we had a dock chat with the fine crew of Seekers, Earl and Kathy, who also come from North Carolina. We asked if they were headed for the Bahamas.

Earl chuckled and said, "Well, yes, but we were headed there last year too. We got as far as Vero Beach and liked it so well, we stayed the whole winter."

Gotta love that cruiser mentality. No hurries. No worries.

Titusville, FL 28º37.272N | 80º48.607W

SKIDDING AMONG FRIENDS

Fernandina Beach, FL 30º40.229N | 81º28.172W

Jessie Marie sneaking up on us.   Photo by Chip

The flock is heading south again. After a short respite -- and a beautiful weather window -- in St. Mary's, we're all migrating, hoping to shake off cold weather for good.

We left the mooring field in Fernandina at 7:30 with our friends on Kajon after much deliberation about what the weather might hold, finally deciding whatever it was, we would manage. Our goal was to make the 62-mile trudge to St. Augustine, a long slog, to a harbor we didn't want to enter after dark.

The weather was kind if cold, and the water delivered friendly faces along the way.

"Cara Mia, Cara Mia, this is Jessie Marie."

"Where are you?" Chip asked.

"Right behind you!"

Sure enough, there they were, our Nova Scotian friends Karen and Dale, tailing us, although not for long. A bridge in Sisters Creek that opens on request bunched five of us sailboats together just as we were about to enter the St. John's River.

Photo by Chip

Jessie Marie came flying around us looking fabulous, just as I was saying, "Hey, there's a lot of current here and the GPS isn't showing me the route." Two things that together were making me a little nervous, since I was at the helm. At this point we were the last of the five boats, all close together, following this pink line:

I was about to pass a very tiny sailboat in front of me as we approached the pink arrow. Looking ahead to the first boat in the group, I did a double, triple, quaruple take. The first boat suddenly started skittering sideways off to starboard -- fast. Behind it, Kajon took off like someone plopped it on a conveyor belt, shooting them way off to the right as Jessie Marie came up behind them.

The current was barreling, practically roaring around that point of land by the arrow, and slamming the boats sideways as we were entering the mouth of Pablo Creek.

I realized at this point (clever me) that in a few minutes, I would be thrown on the conveyor belt -- and I had a small sailboat to my right, exactly where the conveyor belt would take me. My fear was that I would block the current for them meaning I would fly to the right, they would not, and, well, you get the idea.

I threw the throttle in neutral and then in reverse, trying to slow down enough to let the small boat clear my bow before I hit the current -- and them. Reverse, reverse, throttling up, up, up.

Chip tried to hail the small boat on 16, "Get going, get going!"

Cara Mia worked with me beautifully. We slowed enough to let the other boat get just ahead, and, since our forward motion had slowed and our boat is heavy, we didn't get thrown as far to starboard as the others. I also had the benefit of knowing what was coming and held to port as we entered the current.

Whew.

Debi on Kajon snapped this pic just as we were entering the roar.

The rest of the day passed with less drama. As we neared St. Augustine, we passed our British friends, Barney and Di, on Sea Gal, sailing as big as you please, just as if they were on the high seas. I swear they were sipping tea out of dainty China cups in the cockpit.

Sea Gal.    photo by Chip

Inspired, we unfurled the jib and practically flew into St. Augustine at 8.5 knots, entering the harbor at St. Augustine at dusk. We took a wrong turn, then a U-turn, then had to wait for the 4:30 opening of the Bridge of Lions -- and then had to wait for the boats coming through with the current (right of way).  But after 9 1/2 hours on the water, we picked up our second mooring ball, not quite as professionally, and settled, exhausted, resting on the knowledge that we were staying in St. Augustine for a whole week on the peace of a mooring ball.

Peaceful like in Fernandina? We'll see.

St. Augustine, FL 29º53.153N | 81º18.319W

Freedom wings through the Bridge of Lions...

...followed by their mateys on the Black Raven.

SKINNY WATERS

Georgetown, SC 33º21.664N | 79º16.822W

I am not surprised we ran aground today. I am surprised at where.

The waterway guidebook states that tides and currents become more extreme as you head south, so as we plan our route each day, we note the high and low tide information at the points along our path.

It's a complicated formula to figure out how to apply that information to real movement. A favorable tide for the beginning of a trip often means an unfavorable one somewhere down the way.

Basically, I think we're failing Tides 101. In all our studies, we did not realize that we are in a phase of epic tide swings because of the time of year and the moon phase. Sigh.

Our goal for the day was to get within range of Charleston, as close as possible to make tomorrow's passage short. The path took us through some lean, desolate terrain that was beautiful in a way reminiscent of my desert home: lean, low profile, subtle, and, as it turns out, low on water!

We flew out of Georgetown on high tide, making great time down the Waccamah River and into the ICW.

I don't know why it works this way, but every time my shift comes up at the helm, we enter treacherously shallow water. Bad luck on my part? Clever planning on Chip's part? This photo makes me think the latter:

My first shift was a pass through what I thought at the time was shallow water, running from 7 to 9 feet. Our depth meters are around 3 feet above the bottom of our keel. The alarm goes off at 3 feet, 6 inches.

Our general policy is to barrel along at full throttle until the meters drop below 10, then we throttle back some until it gets to 8. Until today, everything below 8 was terrifying.

So in that stretch of 7 to 9 feet, I had to plod along at about 4 knots in shallows stance: eyes shifting like a crazy person between the two meters, one hand on the wheel, one on the throttle, poised to go into grounding action. To state the obvious, it is tense and grueling.

During these times, our policy is to have the person off watch in the cockpit spotting marks, keeping an eye out for traffic, handling radio communication, so, on shallow passages, nobody gets much of a break.

But sure enough, once Chip's shift came around, the water deepened up a little, and we made up some time.

As low tide approached, it became apparent we would be passing through the shallowest part of our path, McLellanville, not just at low tide but, unbeknownst to us, at epic, award-winning, run-call-yer-mama low tide.

We contemplated bailing out at an anchorage called Five Fathom Creek, itself frighteningly shallow. We tiptoed in, sounding our way through to have a look. I had a hinky feeling about it, so we crept back out -- and on toward The Shallows of McLellanville (my name for it).

And then it was my shift.

As I approached the shallows, I watched the depth meters drop, drop, drop. I sounded left and right, lucky to find 7 feet, just more than a yardstick of safe water under our keel. Low tide was supposed to be at 2:19, and the clock ticked way too slowly up as the meters ticked way too quickly down.

Everything from the end of the dock to the marsh grass is usually underwater.

By 2:00, I was inching along 1 1/2 to 2 feet of clearance, recalibrating my own depth alarm with each tick down. At that point an "8" on the meter seemed like fathoms.

As we dipped below 5 feet, our older depth meter freaked out and started flashing an eery and apocalyptic, LAST LAST LAST. I was down to one depth meter and lucky if I could find 2 feet of water under the keel.

By 2:10, I was throttled down to 3 knots, crawling, begging the clock to move faster, the water to turn.

"How much longer is it supposed to be shallow?" I begged.

"Another mile or so."

I inched along over rice paper water, white knuckles, tense shoulders, now going about 2 knots. At 2:19, I heaved a big sigh. At least we had hit bottom, so to speak.

Miraculously, truly, we passed safely out of the bath water without even a bump and into luxurious 8 and 10-foot waters, just as Chip's shift came up. I laid down on the cockpit cushion in the sun, at my own slack tide.

For another hour, we traveled at 4 knots just to be cautious, giving us plenty of time to enjoy our surroundings.

As the tide turned, Chip throttled up, but now, running against the water coming in, we were still topping out at about 4 knots, giving us futher opportunity to enjoy nature's better side.

And a short cloudburst.

We finally approached our anchorage, Price Creek, at about 4:30. I had been puzzling over the chart, not sure of the best approach. The chart showed comfortably deep water IN the anchorage, but nothing great to get there. We conferred and guessed, knowing it could be done, because we could see a sailboat already anchored safely within.

It is an awful feeling, running aground. The first meter starts blinking LAST, LAST, LAST, the other screen flashes up a big warning and starts BEEP BEEP BEEPing just as forward motion stops.

The radio blared:
"Sailing vessel entering Price Creek, sailing vessel entering Price Creek, this is N. Aimless (pronounced Nameless). Go up one [channel]."

"Are you okay over there?" asked the kind people we met in North Myrtle Beach.

"Well, we're okay but we're AGROUND."

"The rising tide's in your favor. You'll be off soon enough!" He then talked us through how to make our approach and find the channel into safe waters.

"Thanks for your help," I said.

"Aw, no problem, we've all been there!"

And he was exactly right. About everything. We were off soon enough (mostly thanks to Chip's maneuvering), we found the way through, and we've all been there.

And as we have well learned these last few years, a long, tense slog through demanding waters yields transcendent rewards.

Price Creek, SC 32º54.119N | 75º40.277W

Our two neighbors at Price Creek.

Attempting the impossible: capturing the scene.

Yes, a rainbow.