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.