Carolina Cruising, Page 3 |
Wing and Wing
We began our voyage on Roanoke Island. Rounding its northern point would put us into the Croatan Sound where we could find an anchorage and be within striking distance of the next safe harbor, well into the Pamlico. We delayed our departure until about 14:00 because the forecast predicted that the 25-knot northeaster would diminish to 15 knots by the afternoon. In fact, as we rounded the northern point of the island, the wind all but died, tempting us to make predictions of an easy sail. Fortunately, the promised 15-knot wind soon arrived to propel us wing and wing with the jib poled out by our homemade PVC pipe whisker pole. The 12 miles to our anchorage in beautiful Spencer Creek was, in truth, the easiest sail of the trip. A lovely evening anchored in a deep, secluded creek topped off a most satisfying day.
A near accident occurred over breakfast when I looked out the rear opening of the cockpit tent to see the creek bank fast approaching. The breeze had gone temporarily calm, allowing the current to reverse our direction of swing and pluck the Danforth out of the mud. I broke all records getting forward, hauling up the anchor, and resetting it. We stopped just short of hitting the bank, stern on, with our rudder.
This event set the tone for the day. Leaving the protection of Spencer Creek, we entered the shallow bottleneck called Roanoke Marshes that separates the Croatan from the Pamlico. Even with a 15-knot wind, the shoal water quickly built to a steep chop that we had to take beam on for several miles. We were thankful for the jiffy reefing gear that allowed us to reduce sail area, and thus the angle of our heel, without venturing too long from our windward seat. But we were even more thankful as we passed through the narrows, turned downwind, shook out the reefs and flew wing and wing out into the wide Pamlico.
The daymarkers of Roanoke Marshes I behind, navigation depended on dead reckoning and close attention to the compass. The low marshy shore to starboard all looked the same and presented very few distinguishing characteristics from which we could triangulate our position. We calculated our speed from an old style log built to specifications described in the "Mutiny on the Bounty". It consisted of a triangular piece of wood, 6 inches on each side, attached at each point to a 250-foot length of line, and with a 1-ounce weight located off center. Knots were tied at the 50-foot mark and each 25.3 feet thereafter. We modified the design so that the line from one of the points was attached at a small loop with a clothes-pin. This provided a tripping device that would snap free at a tug and allow recovery of the log. We coiled theline around a paddle handle, which allowed it to spin neatly off when thrown and stow away trouble free. Recoiling on the paddle, we learned, had to be done carefully, because any snag while reeling off would trip the clothespin, rendering the measure inaccurate. This system worked quite well, and with careful attention to time, direction, speed, and what bearings we could take, we remained reasonably confident of our position.
The most notable occurrence from day's voyage was the crossing of Long Shoal Point. This is an area of shallows extending 6 miles out into the Sound where the western shore bends around to the southwest. The inner 3 miles of the shoal have 1- to 3-foot depths and the outer 2 miles are a part of a military target range. Unwilling to be sitting ducks or to take the 15-mile detour to the outside, we crossed the shoal. Again the wind piled up water on these shallows forming a short, steep chop. During this rough ride, we experimented with raising the centerboard about half way and found that we had better downwind control and less tendency to broach. With boat, navigation, and crew all working well, we covered 33.6 miles at an average speed of 4.5 knots, making a perfect landfall at Engelhard.
I'm almost reluctant to tell about this unusual little town for fear that the word will get out and its sleepy charm will fall prey to tourism. Cut off from the world by vast stretches of forest, water, and swamps, Engelhard is certainly a place out of time. Its harbor consists of a long corridor of water with one small marina (which we found deserted) and small commercial fisheries on each side. We searched the town for 45 minutes without finding a living soul! After seeing a restaurant atop one fishery, we made a half-hearted attempt to open the door, fully expecting it too to be deserted. To our surprise, the door opened and we found one waitress, one customer, and the best seafood meal I could ever hope to eat. Not wanting to sleep in the decidedly fishy smelling harbor, we asked the waitress about other accommodations. She apologetically replied that there was no lodging available in town. She did, however, telephone the propeitor of the Gator Hole cottage located a few miles farther down the Sound. He cheerfully picked us up, housed us in a beautiful little cottage, and arranged for our return for $25!
The next morning showed us a much changed Engelhard. The friendly, energetic fishermen and rumbling diesel engines revealed the pulse of a vibrant community that takes its living from the Sound. One well-meaning fellow, upon seeing our boat, tried to convince us not to go back onto the Sound without a VHF radio. He cited stories of high winds and waterspouts for his refusal to traverse the Pamlico without a large boat, dependable engines, and radio.
Our most gratifying passage of the trip came on our 25-mile crossing of the Sound from Engelhard to Hatteras. This little sportfishing town is located on the Outer Banks, just inside and south of the infamous Cape Hatteras. The wind had changed overnight, as it often does in these waters, from the northeast to the southwest. Since this would put us on a close reach, we plotted our course to a 40-foot tower 1 mile to windward off the actual channel entrance, not knowing how much leeway we would have on that point of sail. After 2.5 hours completely out of sight of land and averaging 5.5 knots into a 15- to 20-knot breeze under double-reefed main and jib, we arrived right on the mark.
Rollinson Channel is a narrow, 4-mile long ditch through the huge area of shallows that stretch the entire length of the eastern Pamlico. As we entered the channel and neared the Outer Banks, the wind began to build to 20 knots or more. We got our first real scare of the trip as we found that this stronger wind pulled our reefing line so tight that it decreased in diameter and pulled through after we tied a stopper knot in the line, forcing us to rocket into Hatteras Harbor under full canvas.
Ocracoke Dangers
We waited three days in a Hatteras motel for the strong southwesterly wind to change, passing the time making minor repairs and preparing the boat so we could continue on to Ocracoke at the mouth of Core Sound. Finally, we awoke to find the wind light and a prediction of 10 to 20 knots from the northeast as a "weak" cold front was to move through the area.
Motoring up Rollinson Channel, our littleJohnson 2-horsepower outboard "gave up the ghost." Despite this ill omen, we tacked the 3 miles out of the narrow channel in light air before turning southwest, parallel to the barrier islands. "It looks like we'll have a nice sail," Dave commented. But the high, fast moving cirrus clouds proved to be the more accurate prophet. Not 30 minutes later the "weak" cold front hit.
With winds jumping up to 20 or more knots, we quickly double reefed the main. In minutes, the previously smooth sound turned into a seething cauldron of steep breaking waves. On a broad reach, the waves would either break over the starboard quarter into our laps or lift and catapult us forward in a burst of speed. Gradually, I found I could anticipate the wave action by feel. I concentrated on the compass, quite content to avoid the view of the furious waters.
At the end of my watch, I took over navigation duties and found comfort in the sight of the Ocracoke watertower off the port bow. Much sooner than expected, the channel entrance marker was visible and grew at a steady rate out of the horizon. The water grew even more dangerous as we approached the shallows, the waves building to 6-8 feet and breaking against the incoming tide from Ocracoke Inlet.
It is ironic that the mast failed with safety so near. Had we dropped the main earlier (or had a backstay), we would have been spared seeing it jackknife just yards from the channel entrance as we wore around to the port tack On the other hand, we were able to sail under our own power to within ½ mile from Ocracoke where the channel turns upwind, and we dropped anchor. We were rigging the jib like a trysail to the mast so we could sail upwind when a passing fisherman offered us a tow. We accepted.
As my father and I finished telling our story to Gary, Karen, and David, we exchanged glances with each other. We had sailed from the northernmost to the southernmost reaches of the Pamlico Sound in a 17-foot boat. We were among friends, safe and dry in the prettiest harbor on the southeast coast; there was room for little else in our hearts but gratitude. As the fixed light of Ocracoke's ancient lighthouse glowed over Silver Lake Harbor like a halo, we raised our glasses
together. "To life!" we said.
TIM LEMMOND is a clinical psychologist and director of the Family Support Center in Charlotte, North Carolina.
