Of Foreign Build (23 page)

The predominate southerlies and straight north channels granted us a good ride. The soft breeze stroked our sails and pushed us through Florida at five knots. Here, sailboats were in the minority, foreign sailboats were rare, and as for foreign sailboats that were actually sailing – it was almost unheard of.

Each day, landlubbers enjoying their water-front gardens waved and gave us a thumbs up. Most days, they watched their gardens slowly disappear, snatched by the relentless wake of ill designed motorboats. We trickled past, silently accompanied by the waterfall symphony of towing a dinghy. Conversely, busy towns lined the banks, so we were glad to leave the plastic cities of Florida with its sun-bleached inhabitants, where even the trashcans were new and move into smaller towns, with simpler folk, just like us.

The four weeks with Mum and Dad came and went far too quickly, and again we were on our own. But not for long, as
Frodo
had reached their own crossroads in their adventures. They wanted to explore America; they travelled a massive two-thousand miles for a spectacular
Mariah
and
Frodo
reunion along the ICW.

Carting a keel through shallow waters was not ideal, as shoaling was common even within the well-buoyed channels. However, wind assisted propulsion and a steady speed left most boats in our wake, as far as diesel consumption was concerned. But running aground was a problem. We had become proficient at hauling aloft all sail and hanging off the side to lift
Mariah’s
keel. It could become scary when the tides were high and the swift current quickly lowered the water, but with soft bottom landings, the help of fellow sailors, and a dash of common sense, we rectified the situation in no time at all. Our most frightening grounding occurred near a starboard marker on a bank of mud, with the racing current lowering the depth rapidly.
Frodo
came to our rescue, pulling our main halyard from atop our mast via their sailboat, hauling
Mariah
over until we were almost horizontal. We were dismayed to see many rescue companies lurking in the tricky places, awaiting boats in distress and then charging a large percentage of the boat’s worth to assist.

The waterway winds itself around the towns of Georgia. Tacking became constant, and our engine was called upon. Side channels snaked us away from the main channel each night, and we felt like the first to explore these untouched estuaries that teemed with life. Unfortunately, that life included tenacious flies with an insatiable hunger. Mercifully, at dusk they faded away, and we were left to enjoy the wondrous wildlife; dolphins spurted by grinning at us, manatees rose, blinked, and then were silently gone. Alongside uninhabited islands, alligators ruffled the silky surface and snatched at unwary birds. Never had we witnessed such bountiful life. My favourites were the gracious pelicans, swooping, diving, and swallowing their catch.

Amid the glorious, gentle days, the heat became relentless and the skies threatened storms. A half-hourly cool soaking from our shower combated the discomfort.

Hurricanes became a threat as the sea temperature crept up. We started to cram in more miles during the day to reach the safer latitudes. Each night we were thankful to find safe, secure anchorages where we could relax and regroup for the following day.

In the beginning, finding an anchor spot was easy. There were plenty of marinas, but we had no need to blow the budget. Occasionally, there was a free marina. They had no electricity or water, but we were grateful for letting our dinghy have a day off.

Throughout the murky waters of Georgia, we began to have great difficulties in deciding and agreeing on where to anchor. We had comprehensive charts, but off channel the depths were dubious. We had travelled far without a pilot book identifying anchorage sites. With frustration and fear co-mingling on my tongue, Noel and I had two huge arguments over where to anchor, so we decided it was prudent to buy a good pilot book. Skipper Bob’s book,
Anchorages Along The ICW
,
saved us a fortune in post argument drinks.

As we puttered along the litter free waterways towards Carolina, we enjoyed the company of ‘Tash and Den on
Frodo
. It was fun to have good friends to share these adventures with. Den was an angler, and he seemed to find a small fishing harbour for anchoring nightly. This was not a bad idea. The locals loved for us to sample their fresh shrimp, as well as to help ourselves to ice and as much water as we needed. Lifts to the supermarket and marine shops for spare parts were part and parcel of their generous hospitality. Coupled with their fine southern drawl, this place captured our imagination and we expected to see
Deputy Dawg
swagger around the corner at any moment.

Den and ‘Tash were great at keeping to budget and keeping us in line too. Visiting protected islands via “the back door” – where wild horses roamed amongst the armadillos – was their speciality. All perfectly legal, but you had to possess an extra dose of daring.

Without a jetty to tie the dinghy to, we sludged our way through eight inches of thick, black, squishy mud, trying hard not to squash the scattering black crabs. Buried up to our ankles with mud so thick you could sun-dry it for ballast bricks, we struggled and giggled as we tried to haul the dinghy to firmer ground. A fresh water hand-pump, thoughtfully installed amongst the gracious trees, gave us all utter relief after our five-hour hike through dense vegetation. Washing naked on an island, picking ticks off our soggy flesh, and sharing soap, was considered quite normal between the four of us. We stayed in company with
Frodo
for a few weeks. We girls relished the opportunity to natter, and the guys enjoying their blokes’ chat. Putting the world to rights was almost a nightly meeting, with the iridescent dragonflies flitting around us in the fading light.

As close as we were, our boats moved at different speeds. Ironically, our boat speeds were similar; it was our
desired
speed that differed. Noel and I liked to keep moving, letting our thoughts flow through our minds as we watched the changing scenery.
Frodo
was content to sail at two knots and preferred to spend more time in each town. Our life was full of goodbyes and, once again, it was upon us.

I received a useful piece of advice some years ago, when I became over-whelmed with the constant departing of friends.

‘Don’t say good-bye,’ a fellow sailor said. ‘Don’t actually say the words; we all know that it’s good-bye, but by not saying it, it might make it a little easier.’ It does.

Without
Frodo
watching our guilty key turning antics, we could go as fast as our engine pleased and quickly we munched through the miles. The channels were becoming deeper, so we could relax. We watched the houses challenge each other along the banks, the rolling hills, resplendent trees where deer frolicked, and the vivid arrangements of colours that I had thought were unique to England. The constant flow of welcoming people was tidal in every port.

Chatting to locals, we discovered a new opportunity, a new adventure. If we made good time, we could turn west at New York and go through the Great Lakes to Chicago, pick up the famous Mississippi and adjacent rivers, and reach the Gulf of Mexico. This route is called The Great Loop, or The Great Circle. The ICW is just one small part of this incredible journey. It is a continuous waterway circumnavigating the eastern portion of North America, covering over six thousand miles, over one hundred locks, and many low bridges.

Another stage of decision-making was upon us. Despite every person we met saying we had left it too late to complete the Great Circle, we decided to do it. The Great Lakes freeze in winter, so we needed to pass through these lakes and be in Chicago by September. We buried ourselves in books, doing in-depth research of miles, mast stepping requirements, and visa expirations. Considering Noel had a longing to get back to Australia in 2005, while not having to double back, this won the decision for us, for friends it just confirmed their doubts of our sanity.

At any given time, we could have leap-frogged up the coast and caught the current, but by North Carolina the ICW had straightened itself out, and we were happy to avoid gut wrenching Atlantic swells. We decided to do some overnighters, to help with the miles, speed, and seasons battle, which we were currently losing. The cool nights were a welcomed break from hot sticky days; we felt the pleasure of wrapping up in warm clothes.

The famous Chesapeake Bay gave us a full moon, positive current, and clear skies, so we kept going all the way to Washington DC. To reach the capital we turned west half way up the Chesapeake into the Potomac River. The city was two hundred miles out of our way (there and back), but after careful thought, it was an opportunity we just couldn’t miss. The wide expanse was all ours; unexpectedly, it was lined with emerald greens of woodlands, with just a splash of imposing dwellings here and there.

Entering Washington DC was chock-full of adrenaline rushes; we held our collective breaths as we skimmed under a forty-five foot bridge, while watching the constant aircraft landing just one hundred metres off our bow. It was a great thrill, anchoring right in the heart of the city. For a small fee, we could use a secure dinghy dock that came with a plethora of freebies (our families have never received so many emails!). We anchored within walking distance to the Smithsonian Museums and the magnificent monuments. Adding to the stimulation, we coincided our stay for the July 4th celebrations, which came hand-in-hand with ear-splitting, dramatic fireworks that we watched from our prime seats on the river. As time was tight, we carefully chose the main attractions that appealed to us, ignoring the nagging yacht next door stating that we should stay longer and not bother with New York.

With the autumn of July approaching, we had to move on. The three day and three night sail to New York was comforting for our sightseeing-weary bodies. In the well-buoyed channels, the black nights heightened other senses. The breeze picked up the sweet perfume of flora carrying it blindly along. The deep throaty calls of the dawn chorus hidden by the fresh, heavy mist made us feel alive, in a new world. The bonus of calm seas as we traversed the only outside stretch made the trip a memorable gift.

Not quite believing where we were, we entered the mayhem of the wildest city in the world. The Statue of Liberty welcomed us while we weaved, dodged, and dived around every conceivable boat out to play on a Sunday afternoon. The East River runs alongside Manhattan Island, enabling us to view the Empire State Building, the canyon streets, and the Brooklyn Bridge while on board
Mariah
.

Eventually, we found a mooring up stream in the Hudson River for thirty American dollars a night – not bad for living in the heart of New York. Time’s Square was a long walk or a short subway ride away, where we rubbernecked around the streets and stared at the shows on the side of buildings that flew at us from every angle. We treated ourselves to a theatre play and a movie. We visited the Empire State Building and the strangely peaceful site of Ground Zero. These were the most remarkable days of our trip.

At dusk, before leaving, we sat on board our faithful home, watching eagles sweep by, clutching writhing fish in their talons. The evening light on the water was like the caress of an angel’s breath. We felt as though we had discovered America’s hidden secret. Viewing the city lights flickering along the unmistakable coast, we discussed
T
he Phantom of the Opera
, which had blown our minds. It turned our conversation to the next part of this magical trip and this theatre show that was our lives. And, with some disbelief, we revelled in what we had achieved so far.

The following day, as we freed
Mariah
from the mooring in New York and watched the skyscrapers shrink, we started to focus on what was to come: a trip up the Hudson, the DIY mast stepping, the Great Lakes, the snow capped mountains, and the autumn golds. It was all there for the taking, just waiting anyone with a sense of adventure who desired a rewarding voyage.

Noel threw me a look as my loud sneeze bounced off the vast pink, glimmering rocks; the alien noise echoed around in our secluded, staggeringly quiet anchorage. We wouldn’t have been at all surprised if a salivating T-Rex crashed through the profusion of trees that were begging for the company of ramblers. This was just one of our countless, superb anchorages we had found within our expedition around The Great Loop. We were on the second half of this fascinating journey and were preparing to say our farewells to a remarkable, ever changing country.

We had puttered along the Hudson River, housing an exotic cocktail of anxiousness and intrigue, wondering what further adventures inland America and Canada would hold for us. Planning here was critical. Tidal waters creating sturdy currents could make the difference between a stressful battle and a peaceful glide. Wide, green, and deep, the Hudson was easy to navigate, leaving ample time to view the manicured lawns, tree covered banks, and tumbling castle ruins. It all seemed effortless, and if you took a peek at dawn, the hills cloaked in opaque mist momentarily transported you to the eerie Highlands of Scotland.

The dependable cruisers’ grapevine assured us that mast stepping was easy and cheap, it was the DIY bit that worried me. Castleton on Hudson was friendly, funky, and frequently made us feel like movie stars as the locals became intrigued with, ‘The funny sounding foreigners.’ It was here that we were turning
Mariah
into a motorboat. The next part of the trip squeezed us under low bridges and up and down hills via large formidable locks.

After a day of preparation, early the next morning
Mariah
and crew were the guinea pigs at the de-masting process. A French Canadian couple were next to take down their mast, a single-hander (American) wanted to put his back up. We all agreed to help each other. As the crane took the weight, our mast was perfectly balanced. Ready with wooden cradles for support, we eased the heavy lump of timber and its metal stays along the length of
Mariah
. When the mast was secure, we were ready to tackle the next boat. Backs were aching and tempers fraying as the unbalanced mast caught us in uncompromising positions. Lastly, we all helped the American put his mast up. Unfortunately, as the mast reached its vertical limit, we noticed that the rigging was clutched around the mast by the crane’s straps.