CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TWO: ARE YOU READY FOR SOME HISTORY? TAKE A LIFE, SAVE A LIFE.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TWO: ARE YOU READY FOR SOME HISTORY? TAKE A LIFE, SAVE A LIFE.

We’re in the cradle of America here at the Atlantic Yacht Basin in Chesapeake, Virginia. Relatively short drives take you to the Dismal Swamp, Sir Walter Raleigh’s “Lost Colony” on Roanoke, the Jamestown Settlement, Yorktown Battlefield, Fort Monroe, Williamsburg, William and Mary – and WaWa. What? Is not WaWa an American original? “WaWa” is an Algonquian term meaning “Italian hoagies with hot pepper and mayo.” Really – the Admiral himself vouches for this translation. And the Algonquian/Italian connection has been overlooked in American history, but just remember a guy from Genoa named Cristopher Columbus, and it all makes sense.

There will be plenty of history in this chapter – mind-boggling history about the Jamestown Settlement and uplifting history about the Life Saving Service (USLSS) at Chicamacomico on the Outer Banks (OBX). Chicamacomico is another Algonquian term, meaning “the land of shifting sands.”  But first, why are we exploring the landscape and not the seascape this week? Easy – Slow Motion needs a checkup and a rest. We have been running her hard since Key Largo in mid-April, and it’s time for some maintenance. We thought we would have to get her pulled near Morehead City, but we dodged that bullet and rocked our way across Albemarle Sound to get to the capable crew at Atlantic Yacht Basin (AYB). We lost our passenger, Carol V., at Swansboro, because it looked certain we would limp into a boatyard for a week near there. However, with the weather cooperating somewhat, we decided it would be better to press on to a place with more expertise and better rates (AYB). We miss Carol, but she probably does not miss the rough Albemarle crossing. It was the worst we have yet endured. Somehow, Slo Mo held up through these nasty seas. And while she gets her needed maintenance and rest, we get to return to our roots, the places where the idea of America first took hold. If you like a whitewashed version of American history, this Blog is not your cup of tea. A la Alexis de Tocqueville, the French political thinker and historian (Democracy in America), I am looking at our beginnings from a great distance – he from his French culture and I from my 68 years of living through the darkly passive Eisenhower 50’s, the riotous 60’s of the civil rights movement and the Vietnam War, the era of greed under Reagan and Bush, and the age of income inequality we currently “enjoy”.

Let’s start with the Jamestown Settlement. First, a nod to the producers of this fantastic museum – it is top-notch. The museum is run by the State of Virginia. A group called Preservation Virginia (formerly known as The Association for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities) got the ball rolling in the latter part of the 19^th century. Where did the money come from for this opulent set of displays? And what about the construction of three replica ships, the Susan Constant, the Discovery and the Godspeed? Gallagher and Associates, with offices in Washington, D.C., San Francisco and Singapore, did the design work, but who paid them? They also designed part of the National Museum of Natural History, the LBJ Presidential Library and Museum (which is great), the National World War II Museum, the Kentucky Derby Museum, as well as the Vault of the Secret Formula of Coca Cola (who knew there was a vault?). The list goes on. If you live near a Gallagher designed museum, run, do not walk, to visit it. What a treat! And please, please don’t tell me that this treasure is funded by the Koch Brothers. It’s way too “fair and balanced”. It starts with the premise that three “peoples” contributed equally to the life, culture, history and traditions of Virginia – the Native Americans, the Europeans, and the Africans (although most of them were dragged here against their will). And the museum is divided into three major sections about each of these groups and their accomplishments. So the party line of the museum appears to be that immigration and assimilation do work – if you’re willing to overlook the decimation of the Native American population by the Europeans and the enslavement of the African population by, you know, the Europeans.

So now let’s look at the Europeans’ first major foothold in what later became the 13 original colonies, the Jamestown Settlement. It was started in 1607 by intrepid men and boys sponsored by the Virginia Company of London (aka London Company). “Virginia” – this word has an interesting origin. Elizabeth I never married, and so she was dubbed “The Virgin Queen”. For her sake, let’s hope she fooled everyone and had a great sex life. But I get it. When I first learned about menstruation, I insisted right in the middle of my 8^th grade health class that not all women menstruated, as evidenced by my neighbor, Mrs. Witteman, who had no children. So if you can still have that kind of ignorance in the 1950’s about sex and reproduction, imagine what people (even very intelligent 8^th graders) thought about unmarried women with no children in the 16^th and 17^th centuries. Elizabeth I ruled from November 17 1558 until her death in 1603. So she was not around to wave goodbye to the first Jamestown settlers, as they set off from England. However, the territory they intended to steal from the Native Americans, er, I mean, “settle”, was already called “Virginia”. Elizabeth I had given her good friend (with benefits, I’m told), Walter Raleigh, a charter to plant a colony north of Spanish Florida. This was in 1583. He moved on that charter in 1584 by sending an expedition to the Atlantic Coast to the area around Roanoke, North Carolina.

According to some historians, either Walter Raleigh or Elizabeth herself came up with the moniker “Virginia” to encompass the entire coastal territory from South Carolina to Maine, as well as the island of Bermuda. Nothing like an inside joke between the two buddies. Then again, there is another competing version of how Virginia got its name, according to Wikipedia. Apparently there was a Native American word “Wingandacoa”, or “Wingina” , which also described this territory. The “Virgin Queen” version is sexier, and after all, Virginia is for Lovers, according to all the bumper stickers in the Dominion. If you don’t remember this from your history, Raleigh’s efforts failed – in 1587  Raleigh’s 119 settlers just disappeared. They are referred to as “The Lost Colony” or the  Roanoke Colony. There are many, many hypotheses about their “disappearance” – they joined Native American tribes, they relocated, they died at sea trying to return to England, they were destroyed by Powhatan’s tribe, they were killed by the Spanish – and not one hypothesis has been proven. Sure, there were alleged sightings of “grey eyed Indians”, but give me a break. Suffice it to say, the Roanoke settlers were nowhere to be found when the London Company sent its first group of colonists to settle Virginia in 1607.

Here’s the Newport news about the origin of the Jamestown Settlement. The London Company granted land rights, which it had received from King James I, Elizabeth’s successor, in 1606, to a select group of adventuresome males. Christopher Newport was designated the leader of the mission and he sailed with 105 men and boys and 39 crew members to the Atlantic Coast, where they eventually landed at the James River  and established the first settlement on May 13, 1607. There were no women or girls in that first contingent – not hardy enough, according to the mistaken sexist beliefs of the organizers. If Liz One were still alive, I bet she would have sailed along with Newport to make her mark in the “New World” (to us, not to the native Americans of course). Captain John Smith was among the first group of colonists. He had been arrested for mutiny on the way across the Atlantic, and he was scheduled to be hanged, once they landed. However, funny story, the Virginia Company had sent along sealed orders, which were opened before Smith was hanged. The orders said Captain Smith was to be a member of the Governing Council of settlers. Voila! Captain Newport freed Smith to carry out that duty, and, for some reason, his mutinous behavior was rarely, if ever discussed in our history books. So all you mutinous types with unsavory backgrounds, just come to the New World and re-invent yourself as an American Hero – don’t forget the sealed envelope.

The men and boys who first settled Jamestown came from all over what is now Great Britain (England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland) and from some European countries as well. I don’t know how they were selected, and the museum exhibits did not enlighten me on this issue. But according to one of the sources on the Jamestown Settlement, there were very few skilled workers (4 carpenters, 2 bricklayers, a mason and a blacksmith) in the group, and that shortage of skilled settlers, along with disease, illness, lack of food, difficult relations with the Powhatan Native Americans, contributed to the almost overwhelming hardships faced by the colonists in their first year. Only 38 of the original 104 men and boys who landed in Jamestown to settle it lived there more than 8 months. The rest died. Contrast this meager number with the robust Native American population which lived in the Jamestown area. The Powhatans called this area “Tsenacommacah”, which means “densely inhabited area”. What irony! Nearly 20,000 Powhatan tribe members lived in this part of the “New World” when the small contingent of colonists arrived from England. And these Native Americans did not have any food supply problems, nor were they plagued by disease – until the Europeans arrived.

Historians like to discuss why the Virginia Company wanted to develop a settlement in the Jamestown area. They offer many reasons. Chief among them are the following: 1) This Company was a private for-profit, stock holding business.  It was looking to may a profit from the resources of the “New World”. It expected to find gold and other valuable minerals, such as iron ore. It was going to make money on timber and wood products too. First and foremost, the Company was looking for a lucrative return on its relatively small investment of men and supplies. 2) The Company was still looking for a route to the Orient, the fabled “Northwest Passage” sought by most early explorers. 3) They wanted to prevent Spain –England’s main rival -- from spreading into this area and taking all the natural resources. 4) They wanted to stop the march of Catholicism across this territory with their own brand of Protestant Christianity. 5) They wanted to “convert” the Native Americans to the Protestant faith, as the Spaniards had tried to convert all the Native Americans they subjugated to Catholicism. 6) They instructed the settlers to search for the Roanoke colonists who had disappeared 17 years earlier. This search for members of the “Lost Colony” was pretty much an afterthought. Profit was the main motive stimulating the Virginia Company and its stock holders.

It is very interesting that the official flyer on the Jamestown Settlement is highly critical of the profit motive of the Virginia Company and how the demand for a return on their investment made them turn a blind eye to the suffering and privation of the first colonists. The flyer reads: “It is hard to overstate just how desperate the early years were at Jamestown. By 1619 disease and malnutrition had taken all but 1,000 of those who had come to Virginia, and those threats ravaged the population for the next five years. While poor leadership, an unhealthy environment, the worst drought in 800 years, and conflict with the Powhatan tribes played a part, the nature of the enterprise weakened the settlement. For its backers, the Virginia Company of London, this was a business venture to exploit Virginia’s natural resources.” (Emphasis added)

There is no way to sugar coat the fact that the settlers who survived their first few winters at Jamestown had to kill and eat their horses to do so. They also killed and ate a 14 year old girl, “Jane”, according to a display in the Voorhees Archaearium in historic Jamestown. To prove this allegation of cannibalism, the Archaearium has put on display in one of its room the bones of “Jane”, which were excavated from the land of the original settlement. The markings on the bones, particularly 4 scrape/dent marks on her forehead, convinced the archeologists that “Jane”, determined to be a young girl of about 14 years of age, was killed and eaten by other colonists. “Jane” is the only physical evidence presented of the settlers’ cannibalism, but I have not found any refutations of the assertion that the colonists were so desperate for food that they started eating other colonists. Women and girls first came to the settlement in October 1608, when Miss Forrest and her maid, Ann Burras, arrived. Generally, the women who came were married and arrived with their husbands or they were servants for the married women. I would venture a guess that “Jane” was a servant.

What saved the Jamestown Settlement? Certainly, the largesse of the Native American chieftain, Wahunsonacock, and his relatives and tribal members made a great contribution to the settlers. With their greater numbers, they could have killed the colonists when they first arrived. However, Chief Wahunsonacock, whom we call Powhatan (the name of the tribe he came from), was not that simple-minded or murderous. Oh sure, he captured some of the early settlers, including Captain John Smith, but he also responded favorably to some of Smith’s requests for assistance. This is not to say that the relations between the colonists and the Powhatans (the name also used to describe the tribe) were tranquil all the time. In fact, they were not, but in the early years, Captain Smith and Chief Powhatan were able to forge a bond through trade and diplomacy, which was beneficial to both sides. And, of course we all know some version of the story of Pocahontas, aka Matoaka aka Rebecca Rolfe, the daughter of Chief Powhatan who was captured by the settlers in 1613 when she was 16, married John Rolfe, a colonist, 2 years later, and was taken to England by him and paraded around as a “civilized savage” in order to stimulate investment in the Jamestown Colony. Profit motive!!! This is not to denigrate Pocahontas, who certainly made the best of her captivity and who decided, apparently on her own, to stay with the settlers even though at some point she was given the chance to return to her family. Rather, this historical footnote shows the determination of the Virginia Company managers to use whatever tools available – including an “Indian Princess” – to make the Jamestown Settlement profitable.

By the way, the story about Pocahontas saving John Smith by throwing herself on him, when the Powhatans were going to chop his head off? For 250 years the story went unquestioned. Then in the mid-19^th century two historians, Charles Deane and Henry Adams (yes, of the original Adams family), did their best to prove it was bunk. But more recently, Smith’s story of Pocahontas’s intervention to save his life has been considered true, as historians like Stan Birchfield of Stanford, have in turn debunked the biased research and statements of Deane and Adams. See “Did Pocahontas Save Captain John Smith?” by Stan Birchfield, who cites the treatise of Professor J.A. Leo Lemay of the University of Delaware on the subject.

Okay, Pocahontas apparently saved Captain John Smith, but what saved the Jamestown Settlement economically? TOBACCO. The husband of Pocahontas, John Rolfe, noted that the Native Americans were growing a species of tobacco successfully and realized that there was a growing demand for tobacco in England. He somehow got seeds for the tobacco grown in Spanish colonies in Trinidad and South America. This tobacco was much sweeter and more to the taste of the English. This was no mean task, since the Spanish rulers tried to prevent anyone from stealing their tobacco seeds by making the sale of these seeds to a non-Spaniard a death penalty crime. So credit (or blame) John Rolfe for founding the tobacco industry in America. The popularity of tobacco (it’s addictive, after all) gave Jamestown a stable economy, so that its people could start building a society, not just living from hand to mouth. Too bad the miracle crop was the “evil weed” and not something healthy like soy beans. Curse you, John Rolfe, for getting the early colonists addicted to both growing and smoking tobacco. Even though you got the idea from the Native American tobacco growers, you’re the one that convinced the colonists to plant nearly all their acres with tobacco. I’m surprised the country is not smoking “John Rolfe”, rather than Philip Morris (owned by Altria, maker of Marlboros).

I wish I could end this brief history of the Jamestown Settlement on a happier note, but there you have it – a bunch of tobacco growing cannibals. It was George Percy, president of Jamestown during the “starvation period”, who wrote in 1625 that the hunger was so great “that notheinge was Spared to mainteyne Lyfe and to doe those things which seame incredible, as to digge upp dead corpes out of graves and to eate them.” In a May 1, 2013 New York Times article on cannibalism in Jamestown, written Nicholas Wade, he offers the following: “It is unclear how the girl [“Jane” – see above] died, but she was almost certainly dead and buried before her remains were butchered.” “Almost certainly dead” – how comforting. Move over, Donner Party, make room for another historical group in the annals of American cannibalism.

Now it’s time for something completely uplifting and life-affirming – the history of the U.S. Life Saving Service. Before the Coast Guard came into being, the U.S. Life Saving Service was the only ocean rescue game in town. Let’s move forward 150 years from the Jamestown Settlement to 1871, about six years after the Civil War. It was in 1871 that the U.S. Treasury Department founded the Life Saving Service. The Admiral and I visited the first US Life Saving Service Station, which was built and placed in operation in 1874 on the Outer Banks in North Carolina. It is called Chicamacomico, the “Land of Shifting Sands.” We did not visit the Station at its original location, which is now under water in the Atlantic Ocean. This Station has been moved 5 times since 1874, three times by storms and twice by humans. We toured the partially restored original Station. This restoration project is in need of funds, so if you would like to help save the life – and the history – of the Life Saving Service – make a donation. The restoration groups are private; this is a labor of love for them.

The Chicamacomico Station is one of ten Stations built on Hatteras Island. There were 29 stations in all. The area off the Coast of the Outer Banks near the Hatteras Lighthouse is called the “Graveyard of the Atlantic”, because of all the ships that have wrecked there. And so, there was and is clearly a constant need for life savers up and down Hatteras Island. The head of each Life Saving Station was called the keeper and his/her crew members were called “surfmen”. These folks were strong swimmers dedicated to saving the lives of ships that wrecked near their Stations. From 1871 to 1915, when the U.S. Coast Guard came into being, the keepers and surfmen of the U.S. Life Saving Service went to the rescue of 178,741 persons in distress and of this number, 177, 286 were saved. Wow. One family with generations of surfmen at Chicamacomico is the Midgett family. In 1899 Rasmus S. Midgett performed heroic rescue efforts when the ship, Pricilla, was driven ashore three miles south of the Gull Shoals Station by the storm of August 17, 1899. In that incident he alone saved ten men’s lives. He had to run into the stormy waters and pounding surf 10 separate times, but each time he brought back a different man. According to one of the poster boards at the Chicamacomico Station, “[T]hese waters are least forgiving during hard winter northeast blows, and the merciless hurricanes of late summer. The men of the USLSS didn’t wait on shore for conditions to improve before attempting rescues. Their motto, as put by a veteran keeper: “The book says you have to go out. It don’t say nothing about coming back.”” James Charlet, manager of the Chicamacomico site, said the following about the USLSS keepers and surfmen: “These men did superhuman things. They are heroes unmatched before or since.”

One of the superhuman rescues that is highlighted for visitors is the rescue of crew members from the SS Mirlo, a British petroleum tanker which was carrying much needed fuel from the Gulf of Mexico during the First World War. Another member of the Midgett family figures prominently in this story of heroism. As James Charlet recounts, at 4:30 p.m. on August 19, 1918, the man in the watch tower reported that a ship had been badly damaged, either by a mine or a torpedo. The captain of the SS Mirlo changed course to the west, in hopes of reaching the shore and safety for his crew of 51. But five miles from shore a second explosion hit the SS Mirlo. Aware of the danger caused by the explosions to the petroleum the ship was carrying, the captain ordered the crew members to abandon ship. The SS Mirlo had only two lifeboats, each with a capacity of 18. Both boats were loaded with the crew members. The first lifeboat hit the water safely, but the second boat capsized, spilling out its crew, many of whom could not swim, still several miles from land. A third explosion split the SS Mirlo’s hull in two, and 6 and ½ thousand tons of gasoline went out of the ship into the Atlantic, floating on top of the water and quickly igniting. Nineteen members of the crew remained on the stern deck and were engulfed in the flames. At 5 p.m. the six man crew of Chicamacomico launched surfboat No. 1046 (on display at the Station) into heavy surf. A few miles offshore they found the first lifeboat. Captain John A. Midgett Jr., head of the station, saw an opening in the wall of flames and in the opening, he saw the capsized lifeboat. As Midgett’s team came closer to the capsized boat, and as their own boat started blistering from the heat, they saw six crew members come out from under the lifeboat boat – and they rescued them! But in the meantime, the unbearable heat from the flames all around evaporated all the gas in the surfboat. Did this stop the indomitable Captain and his crew? No way! They started rowing! And they didn’t row immediately to shore, not when there were more Mirlo crew members to be saved. They rowed south for nine miles – NINE MILES – and finally they found the second lifeboat, which still had 19 men on board – somewhat charred, but still alive. They attached the second lifeboat to theirs and – against the wind and the tide – they rowed all the survivors back to Chicamacomico. This guy Midgett was a giant among men. So were all of his surfmen. Of the 51 men on the SS Mirlo, 42 survived. What a feat! James Charlet has told this story of valor many times. But this is what he says about it: “I tell the story with my heart and still sometimes get choked up. Most people have never heard this. Why do we forget these heroes?” Because of you, Mr. Charlet, and the volunteers at the Chicamacomico Station, we will never forget. Thank you.

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE: ALBEMARLE ROCKS!

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE: ALBEMARLE ROCKS!

April showers have been displaced by a rip-roaring May downpour here at Coinjock, North Carolina. “Coinjock”, as in 32 oz prime rib, or as in “the best scallop I have ever eaten” (the Admiral). Good thing we brushed all the tree trimmings off Slow Motion’s deck a half hour ago – now there’s plenty of room for more detritus. At least the biting black flies, which were kamikaze attacking us before the rain, have either drowned or gone for a long swim in the swift current passing by our boat. Bye Bye.

Yesterday the waves on Albemarle Sound were ferocious, as they piled into the starboard side of Slow Motion, tipping us back and forth like one of those inflatable Bozo Bop Bags. Now I know exactly how Bozo feels, getting hit from one side, then the other, always bouncing back. The Admiral’s back and leg muscles are sore from bracing against the console for hours, and his neck muscles are sore from trying to keep Slow Motion from turning sideways and heading into ridiculously shallow water. Albemarle got the measure of us this time. Other boaters described the wave action as “being inside a washing machine” and “riding the wildest ride in Disneyland.” Albemarle took its toll on a number of boaters, keeping Sea Tow very busy in the afternoon hours, as it rescued boats with busted rudders and flooded engines. Why were we out in these churning waters? Ask the meteorologist who predicted one to two foot waves yesterday. My eye! There wasn’t a wave less than three feet out there. We thought we had tied everything down securely, but then the “CRRASH!” came. It was one of the Admiral’s big tool boxes, which had been safely sitting up on the counter on the sundeck. When the tool box flew off the counter, it took a bunch of containers of flammable liquids with it to the floor of the sundeck. While I wrestled with Slow Motion to keep her on course, the Admiral checked on the flammables (all remained closed) and cleaned up the mess on the sundeck. The tool box remained on the floor until we reached port.

Albemarle Sound is shallow, really shallow, for the entire 14 mile crossing. And when the wind whips up the water, you have even less water beneath your boat. That’s the way it was yesterday – a wind tunnel, massive white caps, and the “ALERT” sign on the depth finder, indicating less than 6 feet of water. Slow Motion’s draft is 4 feet. A lot of other boats shared this wild water with us. It was not dangerous to cross the Sound in its wavy condition, just a little rocky. Most boats the size of Slow Motion have stabilizers – which only cost about ten to fifteen thousand dollars. Many captains were heard over the radio congratulating themselves for equipping their boats with stabilizers. In fact, I think all the trawlers that passed us on Albemarle Sound had stabilizers. Their ride did not look as “fun” as ours.

But there was something about these big waves that brought out good manners in the fastest of trawlers. Yesterday as a large boat named Stayseala came roaring up alongside us, the captain politely radioed a request to pass on the port side and then gave us a very smooth slow pass, under the choppy circumstances. It really makes a difference when boaters are on their best behavior and are courteous to one another. Naturally, we returned the courtesy by offering that Stayseala go through the Alligator Swing Bridge before us. This bridge opens on signal, and when you call the bridge tender to tell him you are approaching “his” bridge, he grumbles “Come on up here and I’ll open”. “Coming on up” in those waves and that wind yesterday was a lot easier for him to say than Slow Motion to do, so letting Stayseala take the lead, with his stabilizer, was not only courteous, but beneficial, as we hung back waiting to see if the current pushed Stayseala against the bridge fenders. It did not, and we managed to get through without a scrape too. It’s understandable why the swing bridges do not open when the wind is greater than 30 knots. The current around the Alligator River Swing Bridge is fearsome even without major winds. Again, this maneuver through the bridge fenders was not dangerous, just exciting. With the Admiral’s steering skills, after logging more than 6000 miles on Slow Motion, we breezed through, no pun intended.

Talking about logging miles, in the past two cruising days we logged 95 miles and 85 miles, respectively. There was once a time when a 50 mile day was our absolute limit. But now, with the longer days, we are leaving marinas at 5:30 a.m. under a full moon and an hour into our day we are watching spectacular sunrises. Slow Motion’s engines are fairly fuel efficient (2 to 3 miles per gallon – I know, I know) when traveling at 8 and ½ miles per hour. At this average speed, we can travel 85 miles in 10 hours and still arrive at the next marina by mid-afternoon. Our average speed has been even better than 8 and ½, as we arrived at Coinjock (MM50) from Belhaven (MM135) at 2:30 p.m., after leaving Belhaven at 5:45 a.m. This has meant going to bed even earlier than before – last night the Admiral commented that it was still light out right before he fell into a deep sleep. It was 8 p.m. Having arisen at 4 a.m. to enter the waypoints for Albemarle Sound into our navigation system (Garmin), and having battled the wind and the waves for 14 miles (2 very long hours), the Admiral was exhausted when we arrived at Coinjock. Dinner at the marina restaurant, including the best scallops in the world, revived him for a few hours, but he hit the wall at 8 p.m. The Giants had a night game, which means a starting time of 10:15 p.m. on the East Coast. Needless to say, I did not follow any of that game on my IPhone. No sooner had the Admiral conked out, I was headed to dreams of a Giants win. And they did! This is the team that had fewer home runs last season than most Little League teams in their truncated seasons – now they can’t keep the ball in the park. Go figure.

And the rain keeps pouring down. What’s that? A thunder clap! Trust in meteorology restored for the moment. We were supposed to have thunderstorms starting yesterday, but it didn’t even start raining until after the Admiral prepared his signature green and red pepper, cheese and bacon, omelet. One thunder clap does not a thunderstorm make, but it’s still early. Last night the 650 foot long face dock at Coinjock was filled – every inch, from end to end. By this time today, we’re the last boat standing. All the others left before the rain started, and they’re probably having a fine time struggling with visibility and all around wetness. The captain of Stayseala, a Very Important Captain who was strutting up and down the dock yesterday, must be enjoying his soggy cruise to Norfolk, just 50 miles (and a few recalcitrant bridges) away. Very Important Captains  (VICs) are usually ferrying large boats – this one is 75 feet – and they pretty much get whatever they ask for at a marina. The more space they take up, the more money the marina charges. The VICs are rarely, if ever, the owners of the yachts, and often the owners are not even aboard. Some VICs know a lot about the waterway, others not so much. Generally, they are in their own world, traveling as fast as they can from Point A to Point B, not letting our smaller “pleasure cruisers” get in their way. That is why it was such a treat for the VIC of the Stayseala to be so accommodating on Albemarle Sound yesterday. On behalf of all the smaller, slower boats on the waterway, I thank you, Captain, from the bottom of Slow Motion’s hull.

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY: GOIN' TO (NORTH) CAROLINA IN MY MIND

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY: GOIN' TO (NORTH) CAROLINA IN MY MIND

We’re sitting on the dock of Casper’s Marina in Swansboro, sandwiched between two trawlers, In My Element and Field Trip. A lot of trawlers, sailboats and cats showed up at little used Casper’s yesterday afternoon, because the Onslow Beach Bridge failed to open for many hours. That’s the last bridge we had to request an opening – it only opens once an hour even when it’s working – and it actually opened for us the day before yesterday. But Wednesday it simply stopped opening. I’m sure glad we didn’t have to try to tread water for hours surrounded by trawler captains with itchy fingers on their gears, sailboat helmsmen who can spin around on a dime, and catamarans that fill up the entire channel. The Admiral’s blood pressure would have skyrocketed. And Slo Mo’s engines would not have fared well. As it is, we have a constant clicking or ticking sound on the port side, emanating from the propeller perhaps. My worst fear is that something is hitting one of the propeller blades repeatedly – you know how kids used to put clothes pins in the bike wheel spokes to make that neat clicking sound? Maybe it’s not a clothes pin in this case, but whatever it is could be doing real damage to one or more propeller blades. The Admiral went to a major boatyard this morning to see if we could have Slow Motion hauled out early next week to find the source of the clicking sound and to stop it, if that’s mechanically and financially possible.

In the meantime, Carol V. and I have made two forays into Historic Downtown Swansboro, and she has found some neat gifts for friends, as well as some stylish accessories – earrings, purse, glittery ball cap – for herself. I found a handmade quilt with lighthouses of the Atlantic Coast embroidered in each square. The quilt shop here is chock full of handmade beauties at reasonable prices. The owner says they have to be reasonable because their main customers are the Marines and their relatives, who are apparently not known for pulling down big bucks. That’s what makes this society so bizarre – Marines who defend us, give their lives for us, make a pittance. Yet, hedge fund operators, who serve no useful societal purpose (in fact, they often destabilize the economy, according to Krugman), make billions. The top 25 hedge fund operators made $21 billion dollars last year, more than twice what was earned by ALL the kindergarten teachers in the entire country. Now who is really more valuable to our communities – the guy (all 25 were guys) who bets other people’s money (or his own huge inherited fortune) and gets fat fees for doing it, or the guy/gal who introduces our children to reading, writing, arithmetic, socialization, creative thinking, and being a productive citizen? By the way, these hedge fund guys are not “job creators” – they play with money all day, theirs or ours. Many of them got the money from their parents, so one can’t even herald them as “hardworking” or “self-made".

We’re all sitting on pins and needles here in North Carolina waiting for all the votes to come in to determine whether Clay Aiken is the Democratic candidate for Congress from the Second District (central North Carolina and Fayetteville). He’s ahead by 369 votes – there will probably be a recount. Will he come in second again? Even if he carries the Democratic Party standard into the general election, his chances of winning the seat are slim. It’s a very, very Republican district. Give props to Clay for jumping into that race in hopes of making a difference for children with special needs.

We have not left Casper’s Marina in Swansboro, and we will not leave this safe haven until Tuesday at the earliest. Carol V. is leaving us tomorrow to return to Allentown, via Alexandria, Virginia and a visit with her nephew. I think she has made most of the Swansboro merchants very happy. At this moment she is trying to get back to all of them one more time to see if there is anything she missed on her first two passes through all the stores on Front Street.

I drove to Beaufort (“bow” fort – long “o”) this morning to visit the North Carolina Maritime Museum. I arrived with 40 local high school students. They were all instructed not to yell, scream, drink, eat, push, shove, break anything – and have a good time. This is another great regional museum. Beaufort was instrumental to the Union blockade in the Civil War, and the Museum does a good job summarizing that historic event. The following description of the blockade and related events is taken directly from the story boards placed throughout the Museum. According to the Museum, it was President Lincoln’s determination in 1861 that a blockade of the ports of the Confederacy would be a key part of the Union winning strategy, given that the South was still primarily an agrarian society and sorely needed its ports to export the raw products and import needed manufactured goods. Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles called home overseas ships to blockade the 3000 miles of Southern coastline. The US Navy also bought or commandeered every steamer available. The Naval leaders quickly figured out that Beaufort North Carolina was a critical base to the success of the Union blockade. In order to use Beaufort as a base for the blockade, the North had to capture Fort Macon. So on April 25, 1862, just after dawn, Brig. Gen. John G. Parke’s troops fired on the Confederate soldiers at the Fort, using the newly manufactured rifled cannons, which sent 90 pound cannon balls far greater distances and penetrated the walls of the Fort right next to the Fort’s main gunpowder magazine. At 4:30 p.m. on the same day Colonel Moses J. White raised a white flag in surrender, and the cannon bombardment stopped. The Confederates formally surrendered Fort Macon the next morning. Loss of life: seven Confederate soldiers and one Union soldier. The rifled cannon replaced the smoothbore 32 pounder cannon, which fired a 32 pound round ball for a distance of only 3 miles accurately. The rifled cannon fired a 90 pound ball accurately for 5 miles.

Beaufort did indeed become a critical part of the blockade. Rear Adm. Goldsborough said: “Having a depot of supplies at Beaufort will greatly facilitate the maintenance of the blockade at Wilmington.” Beaufort resupplied the blockaders at Wilmington, North Carolina with coal, food, and ordnance. Beaufort also provided a new home for Black men and women who escaped slavery by taking to the water off the coast of North Carolina and seeking freedom with the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. Many of those who escaped joined the Union Navy and were stationed in Beaufort and served as crew on various naval ships, such as the USS Penobscot, a blockader; the William Badger, a whaling ship used for floating storage; and the Arletta, which carried ammo to the blockading ships.

Union soldiers had a relatively easy time taking Beaufort for the Northern Army. On March 26, 1862, before the assault on Fort Macon, Union soldiers rowed past For Macon and entered and occupied Beaufort peacefully. General Ambrose Burnside’s troops commandeered a lot of local property. The Atlantic Hotel became a hospital during the war. Private homes were used as barracks, officer’s quarters and the Provost Marshal’s office. The taking of Beaufort without force was attributed in part to the fact that many Beaufort residents were Unionists before the war. They had to accede to the secession by the State in April 1961, but they did not abandon their Union sympathies. Money always talks in these situations, and the local businesses made a lot of money with the Union occupation. More than three dozen Beaufort men joined the 1^st and 2^nd North Carolina Union Infantry Regiments, which were raised in 1862 and 1863 in this area. However, there were also “closet Confederates” (term used by the Maritime Museum) in Beaufort. The Maritime Museum included this note from the diary of James Rumley, a “Confederate sympathizer”: “Now a recruiting office is opened on Front Street, where traitors are invited to enlist. Over the door hangs a sign, I would add the words which David saw over the portals of Hell: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” The place is indeed none other than the house of Satan and the very gate of Hell. Some poor deluded wretches enter there, and are induced, by false representations, to sell themselves to the public enemies of their country!” But how did he really feel about joining the Union Army? It turns out that Rumley was on the wrong side of history in this Civil War. And talk about selling oneself, what did he think his fellow Confederates were doing with the buying and selling of Black people for all those years? It’s hard to imagine so many people being morally crippled, nay bankrupt, who were actually willing to secede from the Union and lay down their lives (or the lives of their young men) to preserve and maintain their moral bankruptcy of enslavement of fellow human beings.

Even as Rumley was fulminating about the “traitors” in his backyard, thousands of African Americans were escaping Rumley’s corrupt society and exulting in their freedom from slavery. They sought sanctuary among the Union troops in New Bern and Beaufort North Carolina. By the end of the Civil War, in 1865, 3200 free African Americans called Beaufort home. This was almost five times their prewar population. The free Black men and women worked for the Union navy and army, or farmed, or became free artisans. Black families encouraged education for their young, who attended schools taught by Northern “missionaries”. (That’s the term used by the Museum). One African American, George W. Jenkins, wrote to a “missionary” from Vermont, Sara D. Comings, on June 29, 1864, the following: “We will never forget the kind teachers for bringing light to our land when she was dark at night. They came in spite of the rebs. Their reward is not in this world, but a world to come.” Gosh, even back then, teachers apparently did not make much money – and these low paid teachers had to fear the wrath of the remaining Rumleys of the South who still thought Blacks should be enslaved, not educated.

The entire Southern economy came to a crashing halt during the Civil War, and it took several decades to rebuild. New developments in transportation and manufacturing advanced the process of rebuilding. Also, northern capitalists looking for new markets came to the South to invest, as well as to sell their manufactured goods. Two new boat types were created to meet the increased demand for North Carolina seafood and fish products. They were the Shadboat and the Sharpie. George Washington Creef of Roanoke began building the first shadboats around the mid-1870’s. The shadboat sailed well and was designed to carry heavy loads, even in shallow waters. This was ideal for the many small, shallow creeks and rivers and the treacherous inlets along the North Carolina coastline. Creef shared his design with other boat builders and the shadboat became very popular throughout northeastern North Carolina. The first shadboats were sailboats, but later models were built for gasoline engines. In 1988 the North Carolina General Assembly made the shadboat North Carolina’s official boat. (And that was the last positive act of this legislative body – kidding!) George Creef was a native of East Lake, North Carolina – his father immigrated from England. In 1860 Creef moved his family to Manteo and Roanoke Island and his reputation as a master boat builder grew. Then in the 1870s he moved his boat works to Wanchese, where he built his first shadboat.

The second most popular post-Civil War boat in North Carolina was the Sharpie, introduced to North Carolina by Connecticut businessman George Ives, who moved to Beaufort in 1874. The Sharpie had become a staple in Long Island Sound, and Ives was convinced this boat would do the same work as the shadboat in the Carolina waters. He had to persuade the locals that the Sharpie was suitable for their purposes. To this end he hired a New Haven boat builder to build a Sharpie, which he raced against the best boat the locals owned, and the Sharpie proved faster in a race behind Shackleford Banks in 1876. The Sharpie was a sailboat, at first a two sail boat, then later with the addition of a foresail, it had three sails which gave it more driving power. The Maritime Museum has great models for both the shadboat and the Sharpie and a narrative which explains how each boat was built to meet the needs of the watermen on the northeastern coast of North Carolina.

While the shadboats and Sharpies were used by businesses to carry goods, North Carolina watermen used other boats to go about their business of whaling and catching menhaden. Both of these “industries” were prominently featured in the Museum. As to whaling, according to the Museum story board, it has a three hundred year history in North Carolina. As early as 1666, New England whalers hunted for sperm and right whales off the Carolina coast. From 1726 to 1916 shore-based Carolina whalers captured right whales off the coast, as well as (sob!) bottlenose dolphins in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries. The Museum writer says that the whaling industry’s demise was caused by the availability of petroleum based products which became cheaper than whale oil and by the spread of electricity. I prefer to think that environmentalists played at least a small role in stopping the killing of whales. At any rate, the dolphin fishery in North Carolina ended in 1916 and the ocean whaling ended in 1925. By that time, whales had been hunted relentlessly for decades and their numbers had dwindled all along the Atlantic coast. The first international agreement to regulate whaling came in 1931, when it was apparent to most leaders that the only way to save the whales from extinction was to control the whaling industry. The landmark legislation for the protection of whales came in 1972, the Marine Mammal Protection Act, and this significant law was followed in 1973 by the Endangered Species Act. The ESA lists all the great whales as endangered species and makes it illegal to kill, hunt, collect, injure or harass whales, or to destroy their habitat in any way. It also makes it illegal to buy or sell any whales. I don’t know how Sea World and other tourist attractions which hold whales in captivity to put them in shows get out from under the ESA, but it would be an interesting issue to explore.  At least the wholesale killing of whales by this country is over – just reading about the manner of whale killing is sickening. Read what the Maritime Museum has written on a story board:

“North Carolinians used double-ended oar-propelled pilot boats for shore whaling. They threw barbed harpoons, attached to long lines, to secure their boat to the whale. The drag of the boat eventually exhausted the whale so they could close to kill it with a lance and tow it ashore for processing. From the 1860s they also used hand-held shoulder whale guns that fired explosive bomb lances into the whale.”

That is truly barbaric.

On to the menhaden industry. There are no great novels about menhaden, and we don’t have a lot of “Save the Menhaden” bumper stickers on cars, but menhaden should be saved. Marine biologists say that there are now huge “red tide” algae blooms which starve a body of water of sunlight and oxygen because of a dwindling menhaden population. The menhaden has always served as a filter feeder of algae and phytoplankton. The fewer the menhaden, the more prolific the red algae which can kill an entire bay. There is basically a monopoly in the menhaden reduction industry today. Omega Protein of Houston has the monopoly. They operate primarily in Virginia and North Carolina, because these two states allow “purse-seining”, the corralling of whole schools of thousands of menhaden at once. The other states on the Atlantic Coast have outlawed purse-seining. Talk about your competitive advantage. But, of course, no State will maintain a competitive advantage where they permit their natural resource, the menhaden in this case, to be fished into extinction. During my limited research on the menhaden fishery in North Carolina, I came upon the phrase “tragedy of the commons”. This is an economics theory developed by Garrett Harden which posits that individuals who are acting independently and rationally according to their own self-interest in fact behave contrary to the group’s long-term best interests by depleting a common resource. This is what happened to the North Carolina menhaden fishery, which according to the Maritime Museum, “flourished into the late 1960s”. At its peak there were 7 major reduction factories in North Carolina, 4 in Beaufort, 2 in Morehead City and 1 in Southport. But in the 1970’s the menhaden fishery started to decline – fewer and fewer menhaden were caught and all seven reduction factories were closed. Always resilient, the North Carolina watermen headed to New Jersey and the Gulf of Mexico to see if they could also deplete the menhaden populations in those locations. Recently, the menhaden fishery has been on the rebound, but with the ongoing purse-seining the “tragedy of the commons” will no doubt occur again – and the menhaden fishery will go the way of North Carolina’s whaling industry. Already the menhaden fishery in the  Chesapeake Bay is in danger due to depletion. It’s only a matter of time before the “tragedy of the commons” kicks in again. Unless, unless -- unless the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission puts some teeth into enforcement of its harvesting cap – and things are looking up right now for that to happen. Stay tuned. For your information, the menhaden fish is used for fertilizer, fish meal, oil and bait. It is probably the fish that Squanto told the Pilgrims to plant alongside their seeds to fertilize their plants. I hope this brief summary has motivated just one person to print a bumper sticker that proudly states: “SAVE THE MENHADEN”.

In case you were wondering, I spent less than an hour at the North Carolina Maritime Museum, but that time was well spent. In Factory Farm, the book that Sandra gave me, I read about the horrific hog farms in North Carolina which are polluting the streams, creeks, rivers and bays with their manure run-off, as well as cruelly raising hogs in tiny cage-like areas where they can’t even turn around, with one hog’s face in the next hog’s butt. I thought that North Carolina had its hands full with that environmental disaster. Little did I know that they had already killed off the whales and were fishing the menhaden into extinction just off their coastline. Gee, what a lovely State to live in. There are strong environmentalists in this State trying to avoid another tragedy of commons, but it’s a long row to hoe with such a history of poor stewardship of the land and the water resources. I wish them well. Maybe a little less emphasis on Duke basketball and a little more time and money spent on cleaning up the environment and preserving the natural resources – how about it, Dukies? There sure are a lot of brilliant people hanging out in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area – I’m sure they’ll figure out how to save their state’s resources in the next century or so – if there are any left.

“Are we finally through with the offerings of the North Carolina Maritime Museum?” you may be asking. Not exactly. There was a huge display in the exploits of Blackbeard the pirate, who menaced all the commercial ships along the East Coast in the early 1700’s. He captured a slave ship, Concorde, in 1717 in the eastern Caribbean and renamed it Queen Anne’s Revenge (QAR). He built up to a fleet of four ships and a total crew of 300 to 400, at which point they captured about two dozen ships before blockading the port of Charleston. After this success, Blackbeard and his fleet headed north to Topsail (now Beaufort) Inlet. He took a very small crew with him on the QAR and ran the ship aground. Many historians say this was intentional. Somehow he gained a pardon from the King, but that didn’t stop his piracy for long. And so, on November 22, 1718 he lost his head in a battle at Ocracoke Inlet with Lt. Robert Maynard of the Royal Navy. Literally, he lost his head, which Maynard attached to the bowsprit of a captured sloop and sailed triumphantly back to Virginia with this ghoulish trophy. Why is the Maritime Museum touting the exploits of Blackbeard (born Edward Thatch or Teach))? They’re helping the exploration and salvage teams to work on recovering 600,000 artifacts from the QAR, which was found in 25 feet of water near Beaufort Inlet just off the coast of North Carolina in 1996. This project is understaffed and underfunded. So this is my plug. Contribute to the Friends of QAR – Aargh!

If you have not had enough history for one reading, I suggest anything by Doris Kearns Goodwin. Thus ends my tour of the North Carolina Maritime Museum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN: POLITICS, ART, BLOODY SUNDAY AND BRIDGES

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN: POLITICS, ART, BLOODY SUNDAY AND BRIDGES

That White House Correspondents dinner the other night sounded like great fun. Joel McHale can be quite acerbic, and apparently he was very tart in his jibes at the Fatboy from New Jersey (big, easy target), Lindsey (“The Bachelor who lives with his Mother”) Graham, CNN, MSNBC and FOX. Maybe next year we’ll go as guests of Rand Paul (Not!). He was going to bring Cliven Bundy, but, you know. As President Obama observed, any sentence that begins with “Let me tell you something about the Negro” does not turn out well. And if you are starting to warm to Paul Ryan as a presidential hopeful for 2016, do yourself a favor and read the May 3 article in Salon by Paul Rosenberg entitled: “Diagnosing Paul Ryan’s psychopathy: Arrogant, manipulative, deceitful, remorseless”. Never has one person held more contempt for the working poor, while asserting disingenuously that his economic “plan” would fight poverty. If by fighting poverty he means killing off poor people, he would be accurate, because a lot of poor people would suffer and die with Ryan’s cuts to their lifelines like food stamps and Medicaid. This is not an overstatement.

But you did not tune in for this political rant – or did you? Oh yes, the little boat trip that the Admiral and I are on is going swimmingly. We spent five full days in Charleston, the Holy City, waiting out thunderstorms which were predicted to strike every day, but in fact hit every place north, south, and west of Charleston, while dropping just one or two tiny lightning bolts on Charleston’s church spires. However, it did rain from time to time, enough to flood a few streets in the City Below Sea Level, but for that, you only need about one quarter inch of rain. The rain did not deter Carol V and me from venturing into Charleston three days in a row, making a bee line for a few artist run galleries. I had discovered Addele Sanders on a previous visit – she of the fabulous fabric art. It was Carol’s turn to fall in love with her divas and colorful ladies – and she did. But she also fell in love with the works of about four other artists in that gallery. Cathy Fuller, one of the artists, was so helpful in contacting the artists for her and getting her treasures shipped. It must be a genetic phenomenon that the artists of Charleston are also some of the most charming people you will ever meet. This was equally true of Sandra, a painter from Greenville, South Carolina, who ran a gallery nearby Cathy’s, for another artists’ cooperative. A little back note on Carol V. – she visited Cathy’s gallery in Charleston last November and fell in love with a number of paintings which she purchased on that occasion, so this is not her first foray into the Charleston art world. She describes her accumulation of art works as a “sickness”, but with her excellent eye for artistry – in many media – she is putting together a formidable collection of top quality paintings and sculptures by hard working, contemporary American artists. The artists are sooo grateful. One of them wrote Carol V. a thank you note which was gracious, thoughtful and heartfelt.

If you ever have the chance to visit an art gallery or store with Carol V., seize the opportunity, because you will learn a lot and gain a greater understanding of what makes one work of art stand out over a roomful of similar works. Carol V. has become an expert on clouds and bodies of water, especially oceans, for example, as well as still life oil paintings and watercolor landscapes – and she shares with you the dynamics of a particular work that make it “pop”. It was a good experience for me, not only for the art lessons, but also for my ability to restrain myself from buying up every painting that I fell in love with. It helps that Slow Motion has no wall space, and besides, paintings would not fare well when we travel on troubled waters.  Oh yes, and the Admiral’s admonition that one more thing “will sink the boat” was a very strong deterrent. But when I walked into the Low Country Gallery, Sandra’s artists’ cooperative, a painting in the second room beckoned me to it with a fierce gold beam of light. As I reached the painting, I saw that it was entitled “Trout Fishing.” This is fate – my brother, the trout fisherman, retires in a few weeks and has a birthday a few weeks after that. He lives in a house in the Poconos, which will not sink under the weight of a small oil painting. Sometimes you get lucky, and this time I did – this painting is on its way to his home in the Poconos. May it be the good luck charm for many trout fishing adventures.

About Carol V. – she is our first traveling guest on Slow Motion. We have had overnight guests before. The Admiral’s daughters have graced us with visits, and Sonja has spent exciting days with us at various marinas from Charleston to Thunderbolt to Key Largo. Bryan and Sabina have gone for a short cruise into the Chesapeake from Calvert’s Marina in Solomons, and Sabina and Violet have visited us a number of times. My brother, Rusty, my niece, Gretchen, and her family, and my nephew, Dwight, and his family, my cousin Shippy and his wife, Linda, and my great roundball friend, Alan, have all driven to visit us and Slow Motion at marinas from Cape May to Key Largo. We just recently showed off Slo Mo to our neighbor, Brenda, who came to a conference at Coral Gables near Miami. But, sadly, none of them was able to go cruising with us. This time with Carol V. is different. She flew to Charleston last Tuesday, April 29, and she has been on Slow Motion with us since then. It is Cinco de Mayo, so this is the end of our first week of sharing Slo Mo’s cruising days with a guest.

Slo Mo treated Carol V. to a relatively calm first day on the ocean, as the Admiral plotted a course for us out of Charleston along the coast and then entering the inland waterway at Winyah Bay, heading toward the South Pee Dee River and Waccamaw River. That was our first day together on the water, as we cruised more than 60 miles to the Georgetown Landing marina. Carol V. and I rode the courtesy bicycles into Georgetown and traipsed around the downtown area, including a lovely river walk, for about an hour. The dock master gave us the bikes without locks, because “you don’t really need them”. Wahoo! An honest community! He was right. We just left the bikes, unlocked, in front of a café, as we checked out the Front Street shops. For all of you bibliophiles – you know who you are – there is an amazing “used” book store, where the so-called used books are hardbound and good as new. The owner said that some people bring in books they have never read, which accounts for their mint condition. And we reaped the benefits – Carol got Weird Sisters in hardback and I got The Paris Wife in hardback – each for $5. Such a deal.

The second day of cruising with Carol – catchy title – Slo Mo returned to the Intracoastal Waterway, gliding up the Waccamaw River – the river made of tea water with picturesque cypress trees covered in Spanish moss growing along the banks on both sides. If you are going to fall in love with the Intracoastal Waterway, this is the place to begin the courtship. Whatever the season – we have cruised here in the summer, fall, winter and spring – this stretch of water brings you peace. Serenity now!  Do you like turtles? There were whole villages of them tightly packed together on logs near the shorelines, catching some rays. What about birds? The ospreys were most plentiful and easiest to spot in the huge nests they build atop day markers. All of them were either readying some eggs to hatch or searching for food for the new chicks. And porpoises, you ask? Sadly, the tea water of the Waccamaw does not appear to attract porpoises in great quantities – at least not during our cruise from Georgetown to Barefoot Landing in Myrtle Beach. We went on alert at the Osprey marina, where we stopped for a pump out, diesel fuel and hot pepper jelly, when the young, and very able, dock hand warned us of the copperhead, which had been rearing its ugly head around the fuel dock. The only other “animals” which attracted our attention yesterday were the Sunday boaters, who should all be in church rather than terrorizing mild mannered cruisers on the Intracoastal Waterway. Alcohol and water do not mix – I would repeat that, but it’s too obvious. And please, if you have any children, care enough about them to put life jackets on them. If you insist on dragging them on rafts or inner tubes behind your powerful, high speed boat, for their sake and the sake of other boaters who would like to avoid hitting them, please have a spotter on board to check on their wellbeing at all times. One guy, alone in his speedy boat, was recklessly dragging a raft carrying two young boys, heading straight into other boats’ wakes and then making donuts in the water – basically doing everything he could to shake the boys off the raft – he was last seen roaring past us, the boys hanging on to the raft for dear life, heading north. Where are the law enforcement patrol boats when a travesty like this is being committed? Suffice it to say, Sunday is not the Admiral’s favorite day to travel.

Monday, Monday, so good to us. No weekenders risking their lives and ours on jet skis, paddle boards, unsafe rafts, loud outboard motorboats and drunken boat drivers. We were the second boat off the docks at Barefoot Resort marina at six dark fifty – it wasn’t really so dark, not like the morning we left Charleston at 6:10 a.m. Our first major test was “the rockpile” a narrow strip of waterway just north of the marina, where you have to announce your presence and ask if any commercial boats are heading your way. If a commercial boat comes to the rockpile when you’re in it, you simply turn around and go back to where you came from. Industry and commerce are what made this country great – not pleasure boating. So it’s a no brainer that the commercial craft has priority. Fortunately, no commercial boats responded and we cruised effortlessly through the rockpile on our way to Seapath Yacht Club. This marina was our safe haven during Sandy Superstorm. It’s in Wrightsville Beach, which was totally abandoned at the time of Sandy (end of October). On May 5 the only problem that presented itself was that there were very few avocados left at Harris Teeter. Apparently, there were some Cinco de Mayo celebrations in this distinctly southern town and guacamole was a must. After a dinner of superb salad and gourmet gumbo, Carol V. and I went fast walking into a charmed neighborhood in Wrightsville Beach, where the trees all bough in toward the middle of the road, azaleas bloom in every yard and live music emanates from balconies. After the walk, I barely staggered to the shower – one shower for women, which is totally inadequate for what they charge per night. The day had gone beautifully in every way until then – the weather was sunny and cool, the birds were swooping all around, the boaters were civilized. But then there is the shower experience. I don’t want to get graphic – let’s just say that a very large person takes a very long time to shower and an even longer time to dry off, lifting each fold meticulously to wipe away the residual soap and water. My oh my. The shower door was translucent. I tried to look away, but this was a very small bathroom. I staggered back to Slow Motion after my shower and hit the pillow falling asleep – I am happy to report there were no shower nightmares.

And today, we received assistance from the crew of Master Plan as we left the dock. Then we buddied up with them (Jennifer and ?) for the dreaded bridge openings. There were three bridges that needed to open for us today. Two of them opened only once each hour. If you get there too late, you’re screwed. And if you get there too early, as the Admiral can tell you, you fight the currents, the winds, pushy boaters who move to the head of the line, and shallow water. Waiting for a bridge to open is the worst part of the Admiral’s day, always, bar none. Today the wait was not too long, but Mr. New Jersey took the cake, when he cruised past us, Master Plan, and a sailboat to get closest to the Onslow Beach Bridge (the Marines’ bridge in North Carolina), then just sat dead in the water when the bridge opened. What chutzpah! What has happened to common decency and courtesy in New Jersey? I limit this rant primarily to Northern New Jersey troglodytes (see my blogs on Manic Manasquan), because I know a few people from Southern New Jersey who couldn’t be nicer. Apart from the exasperating bridge openings, the cruising from Wrightsville Beach to Casper’s Marina in Swansboro was lovely – one porpoise sighting early on, then birds, birds, birds. It’s osprey season on the Intracoastal Waterway. They do not appear to be endangered in North Carolina. The temps soared into the mid 80’s, so when I picked up two dozen clams fresh out of the waters of Bogue Sound, I hoofed it from the fresh fish store back to Slow Motion for a mile at record land speeds. The clams survived, and so did I, amazingly.

Let me say this about Swansboro – visit this town. If you don’t enjoy yourself, I’ll give you your money back. Seriously.