Day 50-52

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

We had a nice relaxing day traveling down the tidal rivers of South Carolina and into Georgia. The weather was fine, we got everything dried out, aired out, and warmed up. Life was good. I was so content I scampered up the mast to enjoy the view and take some pictures of Pete taking some pictures of me.




We were headed for Savannah, GA where I had a friend and fellow river rafting guide we could stay with. He lives right on the Intracoastal, with a place for us to anchor our boat and a pool house for us to stay in. Three miles off, with a home cooked dinner already on the table, we got caught at a poorly timed drawbridge. Forced to cool our heels for 45 minutes, we tied up to a channel buoy and waited it out. It was agony but, dinner was just that much more delicious.

The next day we had a very full schedule. First, we slept in. Then, we shaved off our beards. Pete had been getting his caught in his jacket zipper. I had been biting off mustache hairs while eating. Warm weather ahead. Time for the beards to go.





my friend Trey had to work, but he left us his truck so we could check out Savannah. We turned out of his driveway, came to the guard house entrance of a gated community, realized we must have turned the wrong way, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to find our way onto a major road. As tempers reached breaking point, I had an epiphany. What if that gate hadn't been the entrance but the exit and we were already in the gated community? Huzzah! We were walking through Savannah's historic district fifteen minutes later.

Downtown, the aptly named River Street is lined with shops and restaurants overlooking the water. What interested us though were all the candy stores, all making their own fresh pralines and salt water taffy and all offering free samples. We made the lap along River Street a couple times and saved money on lunch.

The next day we nurtured our developing habit of sleeping in late, did some laundry, watched some of the Olympics on TV, and played some tennis. It was the first real cardiovascular workout I've had in about two months and my whole body hurts. The highlight of our stay in Savannah came that night when Trey took us to the nearby skeet range to shoot a couple rounds. I had only ever fired a shotgun once before, at a family reunion in Wisconsin. My scores reflected this, but that's not the point. The point is hanging out with your friends, holding guns, dusting clay pigeons. It was awesome. I felt like a real man's man. Afterward we went and drank beer.

DAY FOURTY-NINE, A dark and sordid affair.

Pete and PETE left Charleston NC this morning at 10 am and headed down the intracoastal waterway. After talking to a wild and crazy Pirate/Captain of the neighboring ferry, they were warned about incoming weather. But, with no deliberation at all, they left immediately, loaded down with booty of various kinds.



Just as promised, on the horizon, they saw a storm approaching. The clouds unzipped, and over the next four hours, "pissed all over them".

The intracoastal is filled with wildlife refuge areas, spiderwebs of creeks, hills, and wildlife marshes. They motored all day in dead calm winds and steady rain. They anchored tonight in Rock Creek, off of the Ashepoo River, way out in the middle of nowhere.

They have begun drinking coffee again at the Marinas where they do laundry and shower. They put both Peters' clothing in the laundry together to save money. They didn't comment on any ways of saving money showering.



Weather girl asked them,"if there was anything you would have people send to you, what would it be?"

The answer,"Baked goods, maple syrup, mail, and more Baked goods."

Bloggers: There will be an address for shipping them stuff, like baked goods, coming soon, prepare your items now, so there is no delay with preparation, or baking, or letting the dough rise, etc.

Bloggers: Let's get some more followers! Post the URL to your facebook, corporate emails, bathroom stalls, etc.




From Peter Ver Ploeg:

We spent a great couple of days in Charleston, seeing the sights and relaxing in the warm weather. How warm? Warm enough for us to see our first (and second) bikini-clad sunbathers, events that have left us feeling good about life ever since. We made a token attempt to get some work done on the boat, caught up on sleep, and made the Saturday night rounds along King Street, the main drag in Charleston.

There are dolphins everywhere down here. We saw our first in North Carolina and have seen dolphins almost every day since then. While we were in Charleston, Pete and I saw them everyday from our dock, surfacing with noisy spouts and big swishes of water right outside our marina.

After two days and three nights in South Carolina, we were ready to push on. The weather forecast for this morning called for high winds and hard rain. A fellow mariner called a warning across the water to us too but, we reasoned we would be protected from the wind in the narrow byways of the Intracoastal. Furthermore rain, when its fifty degrees out, does not concern us. The Strolla could use a good rinse anyway. So, with a hearty sailor's laugh and a manly sailor's wave, we cast off the dock lines and boldly strode forth into the gathering gloom.

Fifteen minutes later, the rain began, light at first but slowly gaining in ferocity. It wasn't cold. It was actually rather refreshing initially. The wind, however, swung around to our bow, increasing in intensity with the rain, and driving it directly into our faces. Standing at the helm, I could barely see. I had to keep my face down out of the wind, steering by compass, with only occasional peeks forward to spot course alterations and obstructions. Luckily, no one else seemed to feel like boating this morning so there were no other vessels to watch out for.


The rain tapered off and finally stopped altogether around mid afternoon. The route through South Carolina and into Georgia was beautiful, wild and remote. An intricate maze of rivers and creeks crisscrossed their way through and around vast swathes of marshland. Here and there, low hills rose out of the flats, every inch covered in lush green pine forest. From our view just above the water, they looked like the mossy backs of giant green turtles sleeping in the rippling brown grass. And birds, birds everywhere. To the usual crew of cormorants, gulls, terns, pelicans, and herons we can now add egrets, startlingly white against the brown winter landscape.


We found a nice anchorage just off the Ashepoo River, on Rock Creek. With anchor set, I shut down the motor for the night and listened for the familiar sound of the ignition alarm. Silence. The ignition light was off too. I checked the cabin lights, the navigation lights, the steaming lights. Nothing worked. Something seemed to be wrong. Without power, we couldn't restart the motor. There were twenty miles of marshland between us and the nearest town and the tidal river we were on was so narrow and winding there was no hope of sailing out.



Strangely enough, I wasn't worried. I watched the sunset and the dolphins thrashing around for their dinner, then took out my volt meter and headlamp and set to work, laboriously tracing my way through the ship's electrical connections. Within five minutes I'd found the problem. The boat has a master power switch. It has never worked and on our first day of ownership, Pete and I had turned it to "off" and left it there. This evening, for whatever reason, the switch had jiggled itself into working again. I turned it on and we were back in business.

Day 45-46

From Peter Ver Ploeg:


We took a look around Wilmington this morning, and while the weather may have left some doubt that we were in the South, the city of Wilmington did not.

Alex took us to an excellent restaurant for lunch, "Flaming Amy's Burrito Barn," and then back to the boat. Pete and I spent some time making ready and shoved out into the river at two in the afternoon. We rode the ebb tide all the way down to the edge of the Atlantic, arriving just after sunset. Then, without pause, flipped on our running lights, charged through the rolling surf at the river's mouth, passed Cape Fear Lighthouse, and entered the North Atlantic ready for our first night sail.


We had previously decided to stand two hour watches, two hours at the helm, two hours below. It would have been nice to have a longer watch so we could have a longer rest. But, everyone has a limit for how long they can sit in the dark, staring at a wildly bobbing compass dial, and still steer straight. We figured ours was about two hours.



The night was fairly rough, 2-4ft waves, steep and choppy. A thin, crescent moon had set early leaving us with just the stars and the glow of the compass dial, the whistle of the wind, the creak of the boat and the crash of the waves. Every few seconds Strolla would run into a bigger wave and with a shudder at the sudden impact, toss a thick spray in front of her bow lights. The water would be illuminated in red and green in a brief flash of color against the black. A second later, smaller water droplets, carried aft on the wind, would rain down on the cockpit in a cold, wet patter.

Coming off watch, wet and cold and exhausted, the thought of struggling out of our foul weather gear just to have to struggle back into it two hours later was too much. I chose to remain fully clothed and dripping wet. Rather than climbing into bed like this, I opted instead to wedge myself between the table and the bulkhead for stability on the violently rocking boat. In a half seated position, I put chin to chest and was sound asleep. Pete did much the same. Two hours can pass very quickly in this way. Fortunately, the following two hours passed much more slowly so things seemed to even out.


As we approached dawn, the waves slowly settled down and by breakfast were only around 1-2ft. We sailed all through the next day like this, wandering over the waves under a warm southern sun, land just the faintest smudge on the horizon. Ten miles from Charleston, South Carolina, we fired up the core to do a little motor sailing and try and reach the harbor before sunset and the turning of the tides. We didn't make it and had a slow fight in to port in the dark. It was Friday night, but we were whipped and stayed on board.

Day 44

From Peter Ver Ploeg:






It was a short day on the water, heading North up the Cape Fear River to Wilmington, NC. Pete and I had heard in Swansboro that it was a nice city and Pete had gotten in touch with Alex and Lauren, a young couple on couchsurfing.com, who had agreed to put us up for the night.

We swung into the empty city docks, completely misjudged the swirling tidal current and got ourselves pinned helplessly against the pier. Strolla was unhurt, but stuck too tightly for us to move by hand. It would take us the better part of half an hour to get unpinned. Finally, after much deliberation and planning, we found the right combination of dock lines, motor, and rudder application and were able to lever Strolla off the dock and safely into her slip.


Alex had the afternoon off so he came down to the waterfront to pick us up and take us to run a few errands. Then, back to his and Lauren's apartment to shower. Certain important body parts hadn't been cleaned since Norfolk, eleven long days ago, and we were itching to scrub up.


Back at the apartment, the water was shut off. Alex quickly explained it was only temporary. Work was being done on the building's plumbing. The water would be back on any minute. He got some hard looks for that one, which he deflected neatly, and we settled in to preparing a big dinner of spaghetti and beer.

The water came back on as promised and it felt amazing.

Day 43

From Peter Ver Ploeg:





It was a long day of motoring today through the narrow, winding channels of the ICW. Every once in a while the route would make a turn and we'd catch a brief window of fair wind in which to set sail, but I'd estimate that total sailing time for the day only added up to about three hours.


We did get to chalk up another grounding. That makes number seven. The constantly shifting shoals in the shallow Intracoastal Waterway are marked by movable, color coded buoys in addition to the permanent channel markers. Because these buoys are always being moved around, they aren't charted. You just have to spot them. Where we ran aground, we were directly between two buoys. Not a big deal, soft clay bottom, well practiced procedure.

What makes the event memorable is that right after it happened a Coast Guard patrol boat came into view around a turn and headed straight for us. We were obviously in the middle of a situation, lines strewn about, anchor on deck, Pete down in the dinghy, and I expected them to stop and see if we needed assistance if not actually board us. But, they didn't stop, or slow down, or alter course to leave a little space between us when they passed or even wave. They rocketed by thirty feet away with all five crew staring straight ahead as if they hadn't seen us. I felt slighted.



We arrived in Wrightsville, NC just before sunset and were impressed to see that the marinas were almost full. There were people out and about, on the docks, on their boats, walking around. Boat traffic and marina activity are definitely picking up down here. We are now in a region where boats are still in the water and people are still living in their seaside homes. Signs of life everywhere! Its all very exciting.

We tied up at a private dock while we made some phone calls and planned where to stay for the night. Within five minutes we had been shooed off by the owner. I think the days of slipping in to tie up somewhere for a free night's stay have ended. There is still a free option though. Anchoring. We found a wide spot in the channel, dropped the hook, whipped up some turkey chili burritos, and fell fast asleep.

Day 42

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

Pete and I gave ourselves a day off today. Leaving Strolla at anchor, we rowed ashore in our limp little dinghy and set up camp in the nearby coffee shop. We spent the whole day there being gloriously unproductive and lethargic, leaving only to eat lunch and strike out in little exploratory forays around town. It was wonderfully warm, sixty degrees according to the bank, and the baristas were very understanding. They let us monopolize the couch, leave behind our things when we went on our walks, and watch whatever we wanted on the TV. When we left they even gave us a container of cookies and a loaf of bread to go with our dinner.

We headed over to Clyde's Seafood Market down the street. Clyde was there again and gladly discussed the relative merits of the four types of fish he had available, on display, and on ice in wax cardboard boxes. We chose a big trout, Clyde congratulated us on our choice, and while his assistant filleted it for us, took us through his wall of photos, pointing out his two fishing boats and recounting for us stories of hurricanes past.

Back aboard Strolla, we happily and hungrily set about frying up our trout in olive oil with rice and broccoli. Outside darkness had fallen and the howling wind was bringing in another cold front. But, inside was bright and cozy and filled with the delicious, steamy smells of dinner cooking. Pete manned the fry pan while I prepped the broccoli.

In a moment of silence I could hear that it had started to rain. This was of no real concern. The weather couldn't reach us in our little cocoon of safety. With good natured reluctance, I opened the hatch to bring in some socks we'd left drying on the tiller. Peering through the stormy gloom, I discerned the dull, white hull of Clyde's shrimp boat a scant hundred feet off our port quarter. This was not as it should be.

I was fully alert now. The wind and rain were barely an afterthought. I now noticed that Strolla was no longer bobbing and rocking in the waves as she had been and still should be. No time to put on a coat. I raced forward to the bow. Dropping to my knees, I reached through the pulpit railing to feel the anchor line. Slack. A careful survey of visible landmarks revealed that we were not moving. In a flash, I knew what had happened. Between the conflicting forces of wind and current, Strolla had been swinging crazily around on her anchor and had finally pulled it loose. Floating free, she had then been pushed aground on the edge of a shoal.

Seeing as we weren't moving, and dinner was ready, I figured we might as well eat first. I went back inside. It was a somewhat tense meal, but still delicious. Then, with bellies full of trout and hearts full of foreboding, we suited up in our foul weather gear and stepped out to face the night.

It turned out to not be so bad. We hadn't actually run aground but rather were being held up against the edge of the shoal by the wind. Pete pulled in the anchor and I was able to motor us off without much trouble. We headed back to the middle of the channel, changed from our Danforth (which had failed) to our plough anchor, dropped it, backed down with the motor to set it, and retired inside to bed. The whole thing only took about half an hour.

Day 41

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

Another late start this morning with very little conversation and no sudden movements. Pete and I were both feeling a little fragile after last night. The next town down the line is Swansboro, NC, a picturesque day away down Bogue Sound. Lots of salt marshes and pelicans and empty summer homes. The only other boat we saw out was the ferry that came chugging along towards us and almost squeezed us out of the channel.

The ICW is notorious for boats running aground. The waterway is largely composed of narrow, buoyed channels through shallow tidal bays, sounds, and rivers. These are prone to silting and shoaling and are often not dredged regularly. Fortunately for many an unfortunate mariner, the bottoms are mostly soft mud and sod and don't do much more to the keel of a boat than perhaps remove a little paint. When you tell someone you're running the ICW, they ask if you've run aground yet. We answer with a hearty "Yes".

Today, our count rose by one. It was my fault. I was daydreaming in a part of the channel that allowed no time for daydreaming. In a horrible jolt Strolla pitched forward on her nose, the stern almost lifting out of the water. Time to bust out the kedge anchor. After yesterday's practice, we had the whole procedure down pat, but time was against us. The ebb tide was flowing at full speed, draining out of the sound, and every second was precious. If we didn't get off soon, we'd have to wait for a full tide cycle to pass before we could try again, at least an eight hour wait.

With this looming threat urging us on, we worked with a quickness born of desperation, fighting through the nausea still lingering from last night's festivities. When all was ready, I paddled out cross current to the deep middle of the channel and dropped the anchor. The flukes wouldn't bite into the grassy bottom and after pulling in all two hundred feet of line, I returned with aching arms to try again. Same result. Pete took my place in the dinghy and set out once more, this time with the big Danforth anchor. Back in the boat and breathing hard, he helped me haul in the line for a third time. After bringing in another fifty feet or so, the anchor caught and held. We took the line around the starboard winch and slowly dragged ourselves to freedom.

We made it the rest of the way to Swansboro uneventfully. No public docks to tie up at so we dropped anchor just across from downtown and paddled ashore in the dinghy to scrounge some dinner. After passing the shrimp boat fleet safely in their berths as we came in, we decided tonight was the night for seafood. The only seafood market in walking distance, "Clyde Phillips Seafood Market," was closed on Sunday. We were walking out of the parking lot, depressed and hungry when a truck pulled in and an old man stepped out. "You wouldn't happen to be Clyde?" I asked. Yes, he was, and yes, he was willing to sell us some shrimp.

Two pounds for ten dollars seemed like a reasonable amount at a reasonable price. We hurried back to the boat. Pete began grilling the shrimp on our little propane barbecue while I started the rest of the dinner. We figured a pound of shrimp each, when combined with broccoli, carrots, and butter/garlic linguini would make a nice little meal. If there wasn't enough we could always heat up a couple cans of soup.

Neither Pete nor I had ever cooked shrimp before so we lost a few to the discovery that yes, shrimp can be over-grilled. We had enough shrimp that we didn't feel their loss too keenly and there was soon an impressive pile of shrimp shells on the plate between us. Thus sated, paddled back to shore for an evening in the local coffee shop, writing letters, eating cookies, and watching Olympics on their flat screen TV.

Day 40

From Peter Ver Ploeg:







We woke up to four fresh inches of snow over everything, business as usual on this trip, and climbed out on deck with a groan to begin digging out. The snow was obviously something special for the people of Oriental, NC, however, who were out in force on this Saturday morning, playing and taking photos of the shrimp boats in the snow.




The morning pee was an awkward affair with the webcam and the morning coffee crowd just across the street. Pete and I both ended up trekking off down the street to a deserted, back alley corner to take care of business. After breakfast I headed over to the coffee shop to get online. There were photos on the wall from last year's Christmas parade. People were in t-shirts. We picked the wrong Winter to travel South.



It was my birthday and Pete and I were both feeling pretty lazy but, we knew we didn't want to spend another night in a town as small and quiet as Oriental, even if it was the "sailing capital of North Carolina." Twenty-five miles away was the larger town of Beaufort which promised a bit of night life. We were on our way by noon.


The highlight of the day came as we exited Core Creek into the bay. In the flat, gray afternoon light, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by a pod of about fifteen dolphins meandering their way upriver in the opposite direction. The dolphins were surfacing and spouting all around, slipping in and out of view, sleek and gray and slippery. In a matter minutes they were passed and disappearing out of sight and we were once again alone with the birds.



A couple miles out of of Beaufort we discovered an inaccuracy in our charts when the boat lurched to a sudden stop, hard aground. I ducked down into the cabin to double check our position. we were right where we should be, in the middle of a narrow, channel. Apparently, some shoaling had occurred since our charts were last updated. Pete hopped into the dinghy to paddle off and set the anchor and we began the laborious process of kedging ourselves off. Once again floating free, we moved further down to try and skirt the shoal. Fifty feet later, we were stuck a second time. Forget this. We gave up on that channel and found a different way into Beaufort.



Beaufort, at first glance did not look too promising for night life, but on the suggestion from a fellow sailor in Oriental, we found our way to the Backstreet Pub. Roaring fire, great bluegrass band and a delicious North Carolina beer called "Duck Rabbit" on special. Everyone seemed to know the band and each other, which made us the interesting, new faces in the crowd. It was Saturday night and my birthday after all so, as sailors do, we kept a low profile, drank responsibly, and went to bed early.

Day 39

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

The trip from Hatteras to Oriental, NC was a calm, gray day of motoring, laying down the miles on a steely sea neath a steely sky. We tied up at the public dock in Oriental and were happy to be greeted by some fellow sailors tied up next to us, the first we'd met since NYC. They offered us hot chocolate and we stood in the cold admiring each other's boats and talking shop. They advised us of the coffee shop across the street and its 24 hr webcam trained on the dock. Good to know, important to keep that in mind...

It was cold and we didn't feel like being on the boat, so we decided to go somewhere warm. At a nearby restaurant, we tucked in to some crab corn chowder and watched a little of the Vancouver Olympics from the bar. By the time we made our way back to the boat it had started snowing.

Day 38

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

We left Manteo this morning charging along on the last gasps of the gale that passed through yesterday. With a double reef in the main, we were still making seven and a half knots!

The day began with all canvas set and snapping, but very quickly we realized that this was not the prudent choice. Time to reduce sail. This was the first time Pete and I had attempted to reef the mainsail and in hindsight, we probably should have taken a few practice runs in calm weather. With Pete manning the tiller, I crouched forward on the heaving deck amidst the howling frenzy of wind whipped lines and sail, doggedly trying to figure out what went where and in what order. The wind was roaring, the waves were crashing, lines were smacking me in the face and body and Pete couldn't hear what I was shouting. The result were a few false starts and some missed communication, some frustration, and of course, a healthy dose of colorful and creative language. The whole ordeal took quite a bit longer than it should have and it was with a sigh of a relief that finally I climbed back down to join Pete in the cockpit. The first reef was in.

It was then that Pete and I, admiring our handiwork, noticed a tear starting to spread from one of the grommets where the sail is tied to the boom. This discovery was followed by an eruption of colorful and creative language loud enough to be heard above the wind. I raced back to the mast to drop the sail down to the next reef point and the whole process was repeated. This time, however, slightly faster and more smoothly.

As evening approached the wind dropped. Afraid to shake out the reefs for fear that the tear would spread, we crawled the last couple miles in to Hatteras, NC at a measly three knots. The town seemed to have shut down for the Winter. Not much to do, or see, within walking distance so we went to bed early.

Day 37

From Peter Ver Ploeg:

Knowing we'd be spending the day in Manteo, waiting for the gale to pass, we slept in late, packed a lunch and thumbed a ride across the bridge from Roanoke Island to the Outer Banks and the town of Nags Head, NC to see the ocean and explore the sand dunes. The man who gave us a lift informed us that Nags Head gets its name from Blackbeard the Pirate and his crew who operated around these parts. As legend has it, they would lure ships in to the shoals during storms by leading a nag and cart with lanterns along the dune ridge. Ship captains would be tricked into believing they'd sighted land and the ships could be looted once the weather cleared. Nice. The next town up is called, "Kill Devil Hills" because the rum brewed there was said to be so bad it could kill the devil himself. Very nice.



We stopped in to the local kite, kayaking, and hang gliding shop to find out what was worth exploring. They advised us to protect our eyes. Right they were. Sand lifted off the dunes and hurtled at you by the wind at 55 mph hurts.




Wrapped in full Winter gear against the wind and sand, we strolled along the vast, deserted beaches collecting sea shells. We jumped and rolled down the dunes. We ate our lunches of beer and sandwiches, both dusted liberally with sand for texture. Then, wind burned, sun burned, cold, and sandy, we hitch hiked back across to Manteo to make sure the boat was still there. It was.





Storm surge flooding had closed most of Nags Head and downtown Manteo. The man who gave us a lift back told us this was the worst he'd seen it in at least a decade. Looks like we picked a good time to visit. We felt pretty clever to be striding along in our rubber galoshes (known locally as Wanchese Go-Go Boots because of that nearby town's propensity for flooding) but, when a truck drove by, the resulting wave was enough to go over the top of Pete's boots and fill them up. Now, I'm the only one who feels smart.




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BnW_6a8vEg

Check out Pete as he chases down his sun glasses.

Day 36

From Peter Ver Ploeg

We slipped out of Coinjock, NC in the pale, morning sunlight, the boat once again coated in a silky fuzz of frost. The two dozen eggs we'd bought in Norfolk had frozen again overnight. Interestingly, not all the eggs freeze each night. The night before last, only eight eggs had frozen. Last night, six more. When eggs freeze, they expand and crack open, which isn't really a problem as long as you can eat them before they thaw again. Of course, you can't crack a frozen egg. You have to peel it, like a hard boiled egg, chipping off the shell bit by bit. Very quickly your fingertips begin to sting with the cold and it can be quite uncomfortable for a while until they go numb.



It was this morning, with its frozen eggs, that Pete and I learned a valuable life lesson about putting cold things in glassware and exposing it to heat. We have four cups on board, three of glass and one of metal, so we generally try to save the metal cup for special occasions. I had put the frozen eggs in a glass cup but couldn't scramble them until they'd thawed a bit so I placed the cup on the stove. A few minutes later I heard a soft "pop". I glanced over but, seeing no change, continued preparing breakfast. When the eggs looked thawed enough, I lifted the cup off the stove and discovered that the bottom of the cup had broken off cleanly around the edge. It stayed on the stove top along with all of the eggs. Pete and I were both very impressed but also very sad and we had a much smaller, later breakfast than planned.


The red and green channel markers of the ICW led us along circuitously all morning, through thick swamps and grassy marshlands, narrow cuts and wide open bays. For the most part, it was just us and the birds out there. No houses, no boats, just big flocks of gulls and terns, cormorants, pelicans, and even eagles. The only boat we saw all day was a tug and barge that appeared suddenly on our stern and veered away as soon as we entered Albemarle Sound.



The official Intracoastal route cuts straight across the Albemarle Sound from North to South and enters the Alligator River. After two days of tight channels and rivers, Pete and I were anxious for a little elbow room and so, being in no particular hurry, left the ICW and turned East to the coast to cruise along the West edge of the Outer Banks. We pulled in Manteo, on Roanoke Island around 1:30 and tied up at the public wharf, right below the signal tower. Two red, triangular pennants were flying. Gale Warning.



We wandered around exploring the mostly closed summer seasonal business district and made our usual pilgrimage to the grocery store, post office, and library. We were thrown out a couple minutes before closing time by some not very friendly librarians in a hurry, only to discover that the storm had arrived and we faced a long walk back to the boat in heavy rain. It wasn't snow though, so we must be getting further South! The forecast for Wednesday is calling for winds gusting to 55 mph, waves 5 ft in the sound and up to 34 ft out at sea. Glad to be safely docked.