The Chesapeake Maritime Museum in St. Michaels, Maryland, invited me to speak at its annual Mid-Atlantic Small Craft Festival, and I agreed. St. Michaels is 600 nautical miles north of Gannet‘s slip at Skull Creek Marina on South Carolina’s Hilton Head Island. I wanted to sail up. The problem was that my speaking dates were in early October. I would be sailing at the height of the hurricane season.

I prepared Gannet, my Moore 24, in early September, and then I waited. Hurricane Florence was a thousand miles to the southeast heading for the Carolinas. A mandatory evacuation was ordered for the entire South Carolina coast. But was lifted for Hilton Head just before it was due to go into effect.

Hurricane No. 1
Hurricane Florence came ashore early Friday more than 200 miles to the north and brought only moderate wind and rain to Hilton Head. Hoping to ride trailing south winds, I waited until Monday morning and pushed Gannet from its slip into a gray dawn.

The marina is 2 miles from where Skull Creek enters Port Royal Sound. I raised sails and cut the Torqeedo, but our speed dropped below 2 knots, so I turned the electric outboard back on and motor-sailed at 3 knots to the mouth of the creek, where I removed the Torqeedo and outboard bracket from the transom in smooth water. A wise decision because the south wind increased to 20 knots apparent, roughing up the sound as we beat our wet way 8 miles to open water with 3-foot waves breaking over the foredeck.

Finally we were able to turn east-northeast and ease sheets, but with the wind south-southeast, only to a beam reach. Gannet was still taking waves and heeled 30 degrees, and the tiller pilot was working too hard, so I put a reef in the main.

Our route naturally divided into three parts: Hilton Head east-northeast to Cape Hatteras at 350 miles; Hatteras north to Cape Henry at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay at 100 miles; and then Cape Henry to St. Michaels north for another 100 miles. I put in four waypoints all well offshore: off the entrance to the shipping channel into Charleston; the edge of Frying Pan Shoals off North Carolina’s aptly named Cape Fear; the edge of Diamond Shoals off Cape Hatteras; and Cape Henry.

Averaging better than 6 knots, we passed Charleston at 2000 that night. Lights of nine ships were visible to the west of us, and I knew that on this sail I would never enter the monastery of the sea. I am a creature designed to go out across oceans, not along coasts. This time I would seldom have the ocean to myself—land always on one side, ships on the other.

After a night of decreasing wind and a rainy morning, the next afternoon saw us pass a mile west of the platform on the tip of Frying Pan Shoals where the video of the American flag being shredded by Florence was taken. We were in 89 feet of water 29 miles offshore. The contrast couldn’t have been greater than four days earlier. A pleasant, sunny afternoon—10 knots of wind and 2-foot waves. I have been in hurricane-force winds at least eight times but always in deep water far at sea. I cannot imagine the waves such wind must create on shoals.

Another atypical aspect of this sail was that I almost always could receive NOAA weather forecasts on my handheld VHF. Usually I have no access to outside weather information, so I look to the sea, the sky and the barometer, in each seeking signs of change. The NOAA forecasts were of mixed value, sometimes being actionable, sometimes causing unnecessary worry.

The forecast that night, along with the GRIB files I had downloaded with the LuckGrib app Monday morning, was unfortunately accurate. It said the wind would go north on Thursday, heading us, and increase to 20-plus knots.

That and three ships passing to the east caused me to jibe to port at sunset, putting distance between us and the ships, and getting Gannet as far north as possible before the wind shift, which came at 2045 and began an almost sleepless night.

As I jibed the little sloop back to starboard, lightning flickered to the west. Light, fluky wind had me standing in the companionway trimming sails every half-hour or so, until at 2200 I noticed that the sky to the southwest was pitch-black, and I realized the thunderstorms were moving toward us. I barely had time to furl the jib to a scrap before the storms hit with a brief burst of 25- to 30-knot wind, followed by blinding rain, and a half-hour of close lightning strikes and deafening thunder. Back in the great cabin, I listened to big drops of rain splatting on the deck. When the rain eased, the wind went light and fluky once again.

In foul weather gear, I went on deck and unfurled the jib. Because I didn’t know if all the thunderstorms had passed, I left the reef in the main. Spectacular lightning flashed through black sky ahead.

Constant wind shifts kept me awake until 0100 trimming sails, and had me up again for good three hours later. The next morning, the wind finally increased to 10 knots and settled on the beam. I was down below enjoying the settled sailing when I was suddenly startled by a tremendous roar. I leapt to the companionway to find a military jet streaking overhead and two ships to the east. Definitely not the monastery of the sea.

While sitting on deck that afternoon, I noticed a demarcation of water—a clear line between light blue and dark green. As we passed over it, our speed decreased by a knot. We had just left the Gulf Stream.

That night, the wind veered from north-northwest to northeast in a minute, backing the jib and activating the tiller pilot’s off-course alarm. I went on deck and got us sorted out closehauled on a port tack, parallel to the coast, and unfortunately heading out toward the shipping lane. The night—then lovely with silver light on the water from a gibbous moon, Venus and Jupiter in the sky astern—would prove to be another of limited sleep.

The wind quickly increased as predicted, and by 2200, Gannet was pounding into waves. From the companionway, I repeatedly furled the jib deeper and deeper.

Usually I maintain my passage log in my MacBook, but the next day, so much water was coming into the cabin despite the spray hood that I did not dare remove the laptop from its waterproof case. Later I discovered that the middle toggle securing the side of the hood had broken, enabling water to get under it. I recorded our noon position in pencil in a notebook with waterproof paper.

My breakfast was a protein bar. Mixing my usual uncooked oatmeal and trail mix was far too difficult. My dinner was another protein bar. I did manage to have a can of chicken and crackers and dried apricots for lunch.

I tacked from port to starboard at dawn when we were 35 miles east-southeast of Cape Hatteras. It was a day of brutal beauty—wind 20 to 25 knots, gusting 30; dark blue sea; 6-foot white-crested waves slamming into and over Gannet; boat speeds of 7 and 8 knots between waves.

I spent some time on deck, braced with my legs and hanging on with both hands. Ships were often near, and one diverted course for what I felt was a too-close look at my little sloop. Perhaps he wanted to see if I needed help. I didn’t.

On to Chesapeake Bay
I left the reef in the main and the jib deeply furled the next day. Gannet could have carried full sail, but there was no point. We were not going to make Cape Henry before sunset, and I wasn’t going to enter Chesapeake Bay at night. As we ambled along in pleasant sunshine, foul-weather gear, food bags and cushions dried in the cockpit.

Just before sunset, I decided to heave-to 14 miles south of Cape Henry. In light wind, I brought Gannet‘s bow into the wind to come about, and the boom fell off the mast. This happened once before in the Indian Ocean in the middle of the night. The nut comes off the bolt holding the boom to the mast fitting. I had used LocTite on that nut. Still it came off again. With minimal hassle, I managed to get everything back together in the easy conditions. I even still had some daylight in which to work.

I managed to get some sleep until 0130, when then 20 miles south-southeast of Cape Henry with 7 or 8 knots of wind from the southwest, I untied the tiller, jibed and headed in. I had thought I might get back to sleep for an hour, but I didn’t. More than a dozen ships were slowly circling, waiting to enter the bay.

First light Sunday morning found Gannet sailing fast just off Cape Henry and toward a plethora of buoys marking multiple shipping channels, regulation zones and shoals significant to shipping but not Gannet.

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel crosses the 12-mile-wide mouth of the Chesapeake. Most of it is a causeway not far above water level that dips into tunnels at two places to enable ships to pass. I headed for the northern opening. According to the current tables in the AyeTides app, there was a knot of current against us, but we sailed easily through at 5 knots. The second phase of the sail was complete. St. Michaels was now 100 miles north.

NOAA weather gave a Small-Craft Advisory for Monday, with east wind 20 to 25 knots, gusting 30, 5-foot waves and rain, so I worked my way 20 miles northwest to Mobjack Bay on the Virginia side and anchored to wait it out. The wind and rain came and went as predicted.

I woke at 0600 Tuesday to a starry sky and a light east wind. I raised the mainsail and the anchor, unfurled the jib, and by 0620, we were gliding out of Mobjack Bay at 3 knots. I expected to daysail the remaining distance to St. Michaels.

I didn’t. A full moon and my tendency once I start sailing to keep going prevailed. After a sunny, light-wind hatches-open day, sunset found us 2 miles west of Smith Island. A partial rainbow was to the east. Six pelicans in a line glided silently past at boom level, and as Gannet glided north at 4 knots in 5 to 6 knots of wind, I decided to keep going. The wind remained light, and at dawn, there was 30 miles to go.

St. Michaels is on the east side of a peninsula, requiring a 9-mile leg to the northeast before a final twisting 5 miles south. I mounted the Torqeedo on the stern but tilted it out of the water before we made the turn south and started beating into a stiff south wind. The last 2 miles to St. Michaels are complicated by a shoal that can be passed east or west, then a basin of deep water, before a final narrow channel that is in places less than 90 yards wide.

Bright sunlight reflecting on the water made it impossible for me to locate buoys. I had my iPhone with me in the cockpit and followed the course toward them shown on the iSailor chart app, glancing repeatedly at the depth finder, and eventually the buoys appeared as promised. I went west around the shoal in two tacks, but I was too tired to short tack the narrow channel, and lowered the Torqeedo for the last mile and a half.

We had covered 100 miles in 33 hours, 600 miles in nine days, two of them at anchor, with many more sleep-deprived nights than ocean passages thousands of miles longer. I was a tired old man.

The next day I explored the museum and St. Michaels. For anyone with an interest in boats, Chesapeake Bay and how men made their livings from its waters, the Chesapeake Maritime Museum is a fabulous place, with boats and exhibits inside and out, and a lighthouse visitors can enter and climb to the top.

To my eye, one of the prettiest boats is Elf, built in 1888 and said to be the oldest active racing yacht in America. I saw it go out on a Sunday race my first weekend at the museum. St. Michaels is a small, charming town, whose main street is ­tourist-oriented, and its quiet side streets are lined with beautifully restored and maintained old houses and brick sidewalks.

However, St. Michaels has some odd limitations. There is only one small grocery/liquor store and no place to do laundry. Am I the only sailor ever to arrive with wet, dirty clothes? The nearest laundromat is 10 miles away in Easton. An inexpensive shuttle goes there, but my wife, Carol, was flying in the weekend of the festival and would have a rental car, so I let my clothes fester.

The Mid-Atlantic Small Craft Festival was scheduled for Saturday and Sunday, but boats began to be trailered in a few days earlier. Many of them were beautiful. Mississippi artist Walter Anderson believed that the distinction between artisan and artist is false. I do too. To build a boat in wood is to create a poem.

The festival did the impossible: It turned me into a big-boat owner. Gannet was the longest boat on G Dock. It also had the least freeboard. What? I thought. Don’t these people want to stay dry?

Hurricane No. 2
I gave my talks, which seemed to be well-received. Carol flew home. Gannet and I were ready to sail south. And Hurricane Michael came ashore and headed toward us. I began to wonder if Gannet was a hurricane magnet.

The still-strong remnants of Michael were due to pass the south end of Chesapeake Bay Thursday night. I considered waiting it out at St. Michaels, but I had developed a mild case of a self-diagnosed and -named malady “captiaterraphobia,” a fear of being trapped by land. In St. Michaels I was surrounded by land in all directions and 100 miles from the open ocean. I decided I could find a safe anchorage before Michael arrived, said goodbye, and left Tuesday morning in a flat calm.

I did not get far.

Glassy water and near-calm conditions had me chasing the slightest breath of wind all day. At 1630, dead in the water, I gave up and dropped anchor almost a mile off the shore, having covered all of 9 miles since leaving the dock. There was no shelter where I anchored, but we didn’t need any. It was as smooth as the most perfect harbor.

A light breeze blowing through the open hatches woke me at 0430. We had several miles to go before reaching the main part of Chesapeake Bay. In darkness broken by stars and a few lights on the shore, I raised sails and anchor.

The wind lasted for a mile, then died. Gannet drifted until the breeze returned from the west, and for a change, its bow wave gurgled. At 1500 I anchored 20 miles to the south and 5 miles up the Little Choptank River in 10 to 12 feet of water 200 yards off the north shore. North-northwest winds 35 to 40 knots, gusting higher, were forecast for the following night.

Somehow the area around Savannah, Georgia, and Hilton Head has preempted the name Low Country, but the East Coast is low for a thousand miles. I am not aware of a coastal hill south of New Jersey. The shores of Chesapeake Bay look exactly like Hilton Head. Tall trees. A few scattered homes. Flat.

Thursday was a quiet day at anchor. That afternoon I made my final preparations. I tied a line around the clew of the jib so it could not possibly unfurl. I put shock cords on halyards to prevent them rattling against the mast, and I let out 30 more feet of rode, for a total of 150 feet. While I prefer to anchor on all chain, one of the advantages of mostly line rodes is that line is so easy to bring back in that I do not hesitate to let out more. Gannet‘s rode is 20 feet of ¼-inch chain and 200 feet of ½-inch plaited nylon line, which has a breaking strength of 6,000 pounds, enough to lift the little boat three times. Rain drove me below while I was having a sunset drink on deck. I went to sleep at 2100.

Wind woke me at 0300, gusting 37 knots and pushing Gannet around, but there were no waves, and it remained mostly level. That was the highest wind I saw before I went back to sleep.

Friday the wind continued to blow in the 20s. None of the local boats worked the river. In misty rain, I sailed off the anchor at first light Saturday morning, down the river, and turned south out in the bay. A Small-Craft Advisory was in effect, and it was accurate. But the 20- to 25-knot wind was behind us and ­provided great sailing. The little sloop flew south.

The mouth of the Potomac River is a surprising 6 miles wide, far wider than the Mississippi River at St. Louis. I was headed for an anchorage just inside the north side of that mouth.

As we neared the river at 1600, I lowered the mainsail, partially furled the jib, and moved the anchor and rode deployment bag onto the foredeck, tying the anchor to the pulpit so it could not fall overboard accidentally. A good move because as we turned into the river, we were stopped dead by 4-foot waves like saw teeth, straight up and down. They broke over the bow and swept the deck. I instantly knew that anchorage was not going to happen and that another all-nighter was, and turned south.

Again I got some sleep sitting at the position I call “central”—sitting in a Sport-a-Seat on the floorboards, facing aft—counting the hours till dawn, but I was continuously awake after 0300 when I had to weave our way through a fleet of anchored ships awaiting dock space.

The wind had decreased, so we slipped almost silently across bows looming high above us and alongside brightly lit hulls. I thought of how different the experience of the sea is of those on board than is mine.

I had timed our arrival at the bridge/tunnel for dawn; at dawn, there it was, 2 miles ahead. I had been sailing under jib alone and now raised the mainsail. Again I headed for the northern break. A ship came out of Norfolk, Virginia, heading east for the southern break.

As the sky brightened, I watched cars and trucks move along the causeway and disappear as they descended into the tunnel. At 0800 Gannet sailed through the gap, and happiness washed over me as waves so often have. I had enjoyed visiting the Chesapeake, my time at the Maritime Museum, the Mid-Atlantic Small Craft Festival and seeing friends again, but those waters are not mine. Although we would turn south and follow the coast back to Skull Creek, there was quiet satisfaction in knowing that the nearest land ahead was 3,000 miles distant.

Webb Chiles recently completed his sixth circumnavigation, this one in his Moore 24 Gannet. Learn more about the intrepid sailor and his travels on his website (inthepresentsea.com).

The post Dodging Storms on an East Coast Sailing Adventure appeared first on Cruising World.

January 2017 found me in Durban, South Africa — off which runs one of the world’s great ocean currents, the Agulhas — preparing Gannet, my Moore 24, for an ocean passage and not seeing the weather I wanted. Eventually, I left anyway, and rode out two gales at sea.

January 2018 found me in Marathon, Florida, where Gannet survived the previous fall’s Hurricane Irma undamaged on the hard at Marathon Boat Yard and off which runs another of the world’s great ocean currents, the Gulf Stream. Again I was preparing the little gray sloop for an ocean passage, this time north to South Carolina’s Hilton Head Island, where my wife, Carol, and I had just bought a condominium overlooking Skull Creek Marina. Again I was not seeing the weather I wanted, and again I left anyway.

Before I go to sea, I check weather with several iPhone apps — Windfinder Pro, Windy, MeteoEarth — and I download GRIBs on my laptop with LuckGrib. Once I go to sea, I check the barometer and study the waves and sky and live with whatever happens. At least thus far.

In Marathon, I wanted wind from the west or south. What I got was a week of strong wind from the north. When that finally ended, the forecast was for wind from the east for two days, veering southeast, then variable to dying as another front approached, followed by two days of 20-plus-knot northerlies gusting to gale strength.

The east wind would mean beating the first 60 miles along the Keys, but it would then be a reach when I could make the turn north. I didn’t know how far I could get before the front reached us. There are harbors on Florida’s east coast in which I could find refuge. I studied the charts and considered some, but knowing that once I go to sea I tend to remain there, I expected I would head offshore to gain sea room and heave to or lie ahull and ride it out. So on Saturday morning, January 19, I left.

I had mounted the electric Torqeedo outboard onto its bracket several days earlier. I had started and put it into gear each day. I had tested it that morning. I pushed Gannet away from the boatyard wall, reached back and turned the throttle handle, and got nothing except a display reading, “Error 32.”

One of the often-overlooked virtues of jib furling gear is that you can quickly get under sail when your bleeping motor dies. I unfurled the jib. Fortunately, the light wind was from the northeast, and I could ghost out the narrow boatyard channel cut through mangroves on a reach and then turn west on a run down the channel to the ocean.

After clearing a now always-open bridge, I had a little space and set the tiller pilot to steer while I disconnected and reconnected the Torqeedo’s tiller arm. The engine whimsically decided to run, and I continued down the channel at 3 knots under jib and Torqeedo. The Torqeedo was useful when, at several places, the wind was blocked by buildings.

Past the last of the channel markers, I turned south and raised the main. About this time the Torqeedo died again, but it did not matter. I got us under full sail and removed and stowed the offending motor, outboard bracket, fenders and dock lines.

East wind was forecast, and I had planned to sail south to Sombrero Light and the deep water beyond the reef before tacking. However, the wind remained north-northeast, and we sailed closehauled on port tack at 5 knots inside the reef, up what is called Hawk Channel, on a course that would take us into deep water in 10 or 15 miles. This was just as well because the depth finder was not working. It consistently displayed depths of 2 and 2.1 feet. When against the boatyard wall, I thought this was approximately accurate. Obviously, it wasn’t when we were in 20 to 30 feet of water. This too wouldn’t matter once we passed into the Florida Straits and into thousands of feet of water, until the last few miles into Skull Creek, where I would have to pay close attention to our position on the iNavX or iSailor apps.

The sun never quite burned through the overcast, and in early afternoon the wind veered to the east, forcing us off to the southeast, and increased to 18 to 20 knots, causing Gannet to heel more than 30 degrees. Life on Gannet heeled more than 20 degrees is harsh.

I was sailing with brand-new laminated North 3Di sails. Impressively constructed, they’re beautifully shaped, with an unfamiliar hard plastic finish, and almost unbendable. Once out of their sail bags, they were never going in again. I partially furled the jib and put a reef in the mainsail. As often happens, the ride smoothed out and our speed increased, though we were still occasionally thudding off waves.

The jib has foam along the luff to help it maintain better shape while partially furled. This is common, but I have never before had such foam. I noticed when furling the sail at the dock that it makes starting the initial wrap difficult. That afternoon, with wind in the sail, it made it impossible until I led the reefing line to a winch. I’ve used winches to reef jibs on other boats. This was the first time on Gannet. That might be a measure of the power in the 3Di sails.

The reefed sails maintained good shape. The first reef on the main is deep, around the normal second reef level, just as I want. And the second reef is near storm trysail level. Gannet doesn’t need much sail area to keep moving.

The night was painful. At 1800, a mile off Alligator Reef, I came about and headed east-southeast into deeper water. If the wind remained steady, I thought that if I tacked again at midnight, I would clear Elbow Reef and be able to turn north.

The wind did hold steady, but it increased in strength, gusting in the low 20s, heeling Gannet more than I wished and causing her to bash into and leap off waves. No matter how many cushions I used, I was unable to find a comfortable position behind the lee cloth on the port pipe berth. I suppose I dozed from time to time, but I was up often, looking for ships, and seemed always to be awake.

At 2300, a cruise ship was a mile north of us, with the loom of the lights of two other ships to the south. I decided to tack away from the traffic and came about onto starboard.

Even though I furled the jib down to a third of its size, our speed over ground jumped from 5 knots to 7 and 8. Obviously, we were in the Gulf Stream and now ­moving with it rather than across it.

I didn’t see any more ships. I don’t know that I got any more sleep. At 0400 I got up, as I would each morning of this ­passage, and wedged myself into the position I call “Central” sitting in a Sport-a-Seat on the floorboards, facing aft, where I managed to doze intermittently until first light, when I went on deck and furled the jib down to storm-jib size.

The wind finally veered enough so that we cleared the last reefs, and as the morning progressed, I was even able to ease sheets. What had been an ordeal became fast sailing, with current-aided speed over ground frequently in the double digits.

At 0730 I saw the Miami skyline through haze 8 miles to the west, but surprisingly had the ocean to myself. No pleasure craft. No ships.

As the wind continued to veer and diminished to 14 to 16 knots, I unfurled the jib and thought about unreefing the main, but we were going fast enough, and I was tired.

The second night was in complete contrast to the first: smooth, quiet, almost level and fast. I went to sleep at sunset. Got up often. Once saw the loom of lights of a ship to the east. And Gannet continued to roar up the coast.

At 0900 Monday we were off Cape Canaveral. At noon, Gannet concluded her best day’s run ever of 185 miles. My experience is that the fastest sailing is the easiest, and the hardest the least productive. The waypoint off Hilton Head Island was only 168 nautical miles away, and I began to hope I could beat the front.

That afternoon was beautiful. Perfect. Warm. Sunny. I moved the Sport-a-Seat on deck and sat there, reveling in Gannet‘s speed and grace, sunlight on waves. A single fat flying fish took flight. I brought the Megaboom speakers up and listened to music. The universe is beyond imagination. Time is long, and you are here only for a butterfly’s cough. Cherish any moment you can. I did.

At sunset, the waypoint off Hilton Head Island was 130 nautical miles away. A 6-knot average would see us in our slip at Skull Creek Marina before dark Tuesday. iNavX and iSailor showed our ETA at the offshore buoy around noon. My hope of outrunning the wind shift grew. I would rather not suffer. We would see.

I stood in the companionway in the early evening. Gannet was getting it done, making 8 and 9 knots. The sound of rushing water in darkness. First quarter moon silver on the water. The mouth of the St. Johns River 60 miles west of us. We were alone. Millions of people on the shore, and we had seen no one since the Florida Keys.

I was up again at 0400. These early awakenings were not planned, they just happened. This time, after jibing around midnight, I remained on the starboard pipe berth although it was now to leeward. I got up when a gust heeled Gannet enough so that the food bags on the other berth fell on me. The Hilton Head sea buoy was 52 miles ahead, and we were no longer in the Gulf Stream. Gannet‘s 6.5-knot speed over ground was all due to sails.

The wind had continued to veer and was now west and on our beam. Water was coming on board, but in part because of the small spray hood I had installed in Durban, not much was making its way below. I put on my foul-weather gear and sat at Central, drinking grapefruit juice, waiting for dawn.

With the sun came stronger wind, and Gannet began surfing at 10-plus knots. That rush cannot be overstated. I have never had a boat that accelerates as does Gannet. She is doing 6 or 7 knots, then a gust of wind or a wave, even slight, and suddenly she is doing 10 or 12 knots or more.

At 1100, the sea buoy was 12 miles ahead, and we were in thick fog. I dug out and pumped up the fog horn. Without a ­functioning depth finder, had I not had GPS positions in my iPhone chart-plotting apps, I would have hove to.

I crawled over the supplies stowed on the V-berth and dragged the anchor and rode bag back under the forward hatch. Even this far out, the water was shallow enough to anchor, but it would be rough. I never dreamed we would make it to Hilton Head Island in three days. The sky seemed a little lighter overhead. I hoped the sun would burn off the fog.

We passed within a hundred yards of the sea buoy. I heard it, but never saw it. Finally, as we approached the first set of buoys at the entrance to the channel leading into Port Royal Sound, the fog began to lift and I saw them.

Within an hour, the sky was clear and I could see the entire 10-mile-long ocean shore of Hilton Head Island. Although there were no other boats or ships around, I kept Gannet just outside the port line of buoys marking the channel. When we reached the mouth of Port Royal Sound in late afternoon, both wind and tide were against us.

I already knew that I wasn’t going to reach Skull Creek Marina before dark. We sailed and sailed, and tacked and tacked, trying to get deeper into the sound, without much success. Just before sunset I furled the jib and anchored in about 40 feet of water. We had come almost 500 miles, but still had 7 miles to go. I poured myself a drink and sat on deck, watching lights come on ashore. We were far enough in to be protected. The water was smooth.

The night was peaceful, if a bit cool at 38 degrees. A friend gave me a good sleeping bag in which I was comfortable, though it was hard to force myself out of it the next morning. After a cup of coffee, I dragged the Torqeedo onto the deck, mounted it on the transom and, behold, it started. The 7 miles to the marina would be near the limits of its range, so I turned it off, raised sails and anchor, and we beat our way up the sound against a light land breeze, but now with the tide with us.

Two hundred yards off the mouth of Skull Creek, I started the Torqeedo again and lowered the sails.

Coming into Skull Creek for the first time was beautiful. A sunny sky. Wind light. A flock of birds standing almost within arm’s reach on a sand spit off the Pinckney Island Nature Reserve to the north. A dolphin broke the surface and swam beside Gannet. A pelican glided past.

I had telephoned the marina that I would be coming in that morning. They were on the lookout for me, and as I slowly approached, Fred, the dock master, called that he would walk down to help with my lines. He did, standing first on the end of the dock, then going to my slip. I glided in and tied up at 1030 and thanked him.

We had easily outraced the front.

I looked ashore at our condo behind oak trees and Spanish moss. Gannet was home. She has never really had a home port. Now she does.

Webb Chiles will sail from Hilton Head, South Carolina, in January 2019 for Panama and then San Diego, California, where he will complete his sixth circumnavigation.

The post Sailing Home, Eventually appeared first on Cruising World.

It was as if cruising dreams came true. We would swing the boat behind an island into a smooth creek. The forest between the ocean and the anchorage muted the sound of the breakers to a distant sighing. In the morning, a short row brought the dinghy ashore. It took a walk around the end of the island to reach the Atlantic shore, foaming wavelets on one side and dunes on the other stretching for maybe 10 miles with only bird footprints on the sand. Add sea turtle tracks during nesting seasons.

It might sound like a dream, but at least 10 major barrier islands fit this description — most of them uninhabited and protected from development as state or national wilderness areas — on the Atlantic coast of Georgia. After spending the winter months in Brunswick Landing Marina, the most cruiser-friendly of the area, we took off southward and sailed almost all the way to the Florida border. My wife, Nancy, and I then turned north to enjoy a slow cruise before our May departure to the high latitudes of Canada and Greenland.

About halfway to Cumberland Island, our VHF screamed with tornado warnings. Behind us, the arch of the Sidney Lanier Bridge over the Brunswick River stood silver against the black-blue sky. Our Mason 44, Frances B, plowed through the mud-choked channel along the west shore of Jekyll Island. We hoped the almost-high tide would keep our 7-foot-deep keel off the bottom. April rains had turned the live oaks, cedars and palmettos on Millionaires’ Row — the island’s historic district — bright green. Nineteenth- and 20th-­century financial heavy hitters of America — including the Macys, Astors, Goodyears and Vanderbilts — created what was once a very exclusive club on the island’s west shore. Grand steam yachts arrived in the winters, among them Pulitzer’s Liberty and J.P. Morgan’s Corsair. But the good times ended with World War II. In the 1950s, the state of Georgia bought the island and brought in convicts to build a causeway from the mainland, and there is now a small marina next to the bridge. The disturbance of the natural water flow from the bridge has silted Jekyll Creek into a mud bath, only about 3 feet deep at low tide in some places. The Jekyll Club and some of the humongous “cottages” of the wealthy remain. Birds love the place: We saw avocets swing their upturned beaks through mud, and greater scaups — seagoing ducks — came in flocks when the Atlantic boiled up in a gale. We took the deepwater trench off Jekyll’s southern point and came within spitting distance of a thick flock of black skimmers, powerful flyers that stand on ludicrously short legs; they, with a few pairs of oystercatchers and many terns, tolerated our gawking so close.

St. Andrew Sound, farther out and open wide to the ocean, lay smooth despite a fresh south breeze. Thick clouds to the southwest planted some doubt as to whether we’d make it to a safe anchorage in the Brickhill River on Cumberland Island before the weather hit. But our luck held. We dropped anchor in all-around protection with solid forests from north to south on the eastern shore and marshes cutting off any possible chop from the west. The night turned out to be calm, and insects whirred around the anchor light. We hung it low, where it would be more visible to river traffic than the usual light high on the masthead.

At dawn the sky opened with pouring rain, and explosions of lightning chased me below to put our computers in the oven, a makeshift Faraday cage to protect them from the high currents of a possible lightning strike. A wedge of blue, clear as a baby’s eyes, promised a change soon.

When the sun came out, the marshes and forests shone. On the shore across the river, a flock of white pelicans settled. These birds spend cold months in Georgia and Florida, and were almost double the size of the brown pelicans we were used to seeing. After powering a few miles south on the Brickhill River, we anchored Frances B close to tall roosting trees. In the evening, egrets fluffed their white wings like medieval ladies waving handkerchiefs to their knights. Long-nosed wood storks settled down for the night on stick legs, while closer to the water, night herons prepared for feeding. Between the oaks ashore, the white walls of Plum Orchard Mansion blinked.

I have to admit, the wealthy of the Gilded Age had a talent for finding the best island retreats. Ninety percent of Cumberland Island, the longest of Georgia’s barrier islands, at 20 miles, was once owned by Thomas M. Carnegie’s family. One of the family’s three large mansions, Greyfield, is now a posh hotel. Today, most of the island is encompassed by the Cumberland Island National Seashore, a status declared by President Nixon in 1972 that prevents further development.

Cumberland Island’s dunes, some 40 feet high, are hammered by strong onshore winds and drift continuously inland. Caught in this dynamic environment, the native live oaks form enchanting forests. Their twisting limbs snake low for 40 or more feet, longer than the heights of the parent trees; among them we felt surrounded by animate creatures. We followed trails through a network of spidery oak branches, shaded by their leafy canopy. On the ocean side, we stepped upon the widest beach we had seen yet. At the wave wash, a family of feral horses stood — male, female and an awkward colt on stiff stick legs — probably enjoying the cool, insect-free air as much as we were on that early morning.

When the time came to leave our exploration of Cumberland Island and start northward, we yanked the dinghy on board with a spinnaker halyard and sailed offshore, re-entering the Intracoastal Waterway at St. Simons Sound. More than 13,000 people live on St. Simons Island. However, even when searching for remote wilderness, you’d be wrong to dismiss visiting here. Sure, while sailing up the Frederica River along the western shore of the island we saw several tree-framed mansions. To the west, though, miles of marshes and creeks breathed with the tides, wild and intact. About halfway up the river, Frances B slid, uncontested, by the guns of Fort Frederica, General Oglethorpe’s 1742 bastion of English presence against the Spanish. A Spanish armada of 36 ships landed a few thousand men against small numbers of the English and Indian allies. After the English prevailed, a tiny town grew around the fort, which is toy-size by today’s standards.

The Hampton River cuts east along the north shore of St. Simons Island. Marshes spread out like marine prairies along the river’s north banks, home to birds, otters, minks and dolphins. Swinging between beacons we passed a marina, some housing and a densely wooded uninhabited point of the island. We plunged into Pine Creek, an oxbow off the Hampton River, and saw three glossy ibis winging overhead. Snowy and reddish egrets punctured the mud banks for food, and an extended family of mergansers paddled away. A wood stork, black headed with an enormous wingspan, hovered over a deeper pool on the almost-flooded upland. Exploring Pine Island, a type of islet locally known as a “hammock,” we pushed and dragged ourselves through a thick growth of fan-shaped, sharp-ended scrub palmettos, twisted oaks and pines. The edges of crumbling oyster shells stuck out from humps of dry soil — ancient middens left by foraging Guale tribes. The din of cackling marsh hens, or clapper rails, resounded in the spartina marshes as the sun went down. This wild place that had forgotten the hand of man made us happy.

Swinging north from the Hampton River, Frances B began furrowing through swirls of thick brown mud from the undammed Altamaha River, once a waterway for rafts of timber logged in the flooded forests and river banks. The muddy waters continued into Doboy Sound, whose tides race by the south end of Sapelo Island, which is populated by some 40 descendants of Gullah-Geechee plantation slaves. There is also a marine wetlands research station and tobacco magnate R.J.

Reynolds’ old mansion-turned-guesthouse. Thousands of migrating birds stop in the tall grasses near Sapelo Lighthouse. Hunters are allowed to come on prescribed dates to shoot deer and feral hogs. Their sometimes overeager reputation precedes them, and the permanent residents in Hog Hammock spray-paint “COW” on their animals. During the 19th-century timber boom, dozens of ships anchored in Doboy Sound waiting for a place in Darien, a small town upriver. In those days, Darien could load 20 windjammers a day to carry Georgia’s long leaf pine and cedar worldwide. Now Darien slumbers, its fleet of shrimp trawlers small by comparison.

We turned Frances B east in Sapelo Sound and, on the rising tide, slipped over the bar into Blackbeard Creek, which separates Blackbeard Island from Sapelo Island. Anchored in a deeper pool, the boat was virtually invisible with thick forest to the east and west, and more high trees on Sapelo Island. We had found the perfect hideaway for a pirate. Three centuries ago, before colonial loggers cut the old forests and the mud began bleeding toward the sea, this creek would have been deep enough for large ships. With the exception of the persisting name, there is no firm evidence that the badass Blackbeard, also known as Edward Thatch or Teach, set up a base here. The name Blackbeard Island first appeared on a survey map in 1760, four decades after Thatch’s severed head swung from the bowsprit of a British navy ship. In 1940, the island became a federal wildlife refuge. Our reconnaissance dinghy ride ended at a floating dock covered with otter droppings, tangible proof of the thriving wildlife. The trails ashore lead into the shadows of a dense forest, the branches curtained with witches’ tresses of Spanish moss. The moss, an epiphyte common in the American South, is sensitive to pollution and attested to the clean air. Now and then a deer scampered away, its white tail flagging among trees. We tracked an armadillo nosing through layers of leaves when we heard noisy rustling off the side of the trail. A silent owl with feathers the color of the leafy backdrop followed our passage with its round, yellow eyes. The trail spilled onto the beach in a tangle of fallen oaks and palmettos. Clusters of small oysters covered the roots at the water’s edge. Not a trace remained of the quarantine wharf where ships bound to Savannah for rice or to Darien for timber once had to stop — the station was closed in 1909 when the yellow-fever vaccination proved effective. On our visit, only bird tracks and scattered seashells etched the 5 sandy miles of the Atlantic beach.

St. Catherines Island, the next one to the north, is unusual. Its owner, a foundation that breeds endangered animals, including ring-tailed lemurs, has put the island off-limits to casual private visitors (per Georgia law, the beaches to the high-tide line are still free for roaming). The St. Catherines Island Foundation’s research station stands on the grounds of what was once a Guale Indian village, later a Spanish monks’ mission and finally the plantation of Mary Musgrove, a legendary figure in Georgia’s early history. White Georgian plantation owners lost the island to freed slaves at the end of the Civil War. One of them, Tunis Campbell, took over as a leader and even formed an army of 250 men. After all this and even after a hurricane washed over the island completely in 1893, St. Catherines looks primordially wild today.

We anchored Frances B in Walburg Creek along the west shore, and spring low tides bared a fantastic stretch of sand banks in St. Catherines Sound. We splashed through ankle-deep water and spent a couple of hours studying the shells of whelks, cockles and angel wings. We chased painted olives — mollusks — as they escaped head-first under the wet sand. It felt thrilling to stand in the sea a mile away from the shore of dead trees, branches and roots undermined by tides, contorted and twisted as if in agony.

The shoals of St. Catherines (and other islands) bring in bizarre horseshoe crabs to mate. About the size of a wash bowl, equipped with nine “eyes,” they have been around for half a billion years, predating dinosaurs. Their blood is tinged blue by a high copper content and contains mobile cells that destroy pathogens. Specialized labs are known to gather horseshoes, suck their blood and then return the animals to the sea; the mortality hovers between 15 and 30 percent. Back on St. Catherines beach, the wash of spent waves often rolled the horseshoes upside down. In order to flip themselves back up, their long tails lashed the sand to find purchase; their 10 legs paddled the air pathetically. We couldn’t bear their trauma and so spent hours returning the ancients to their home.

In the ICW, our 7-foot draft forced us to time our passages. The tidal ranges in Georgia vary between 6 and 11 feet, so we had to deal with shallows on the rising tides and anchor before the tide ran too low. We used the dinghy to explore the veinwork of tight streams, often sending aloft flocks of migratory shorebirds that gathered on sand and oyster bars. We followed Cane Patch Creek on the west side of Ossabaw Island past treed islets named Queen Bess and Queen Mary. We weren’t sure of the namesakes, but thought Mary could have been the aforementioned Mary Musgrove, so-called Queen of the Creek nation and a tribal diplomat when, in 1733, Oglethorpe founded Savannah and Georgia. Buckhead Creek just around the corner led us to a shore where vines had taken a tight grip on old slave houses built of “tabby,” the mixture of oyster shells and lime common in Colonial times. Nearby, some wooden structures marked an extinct 1970s hippie commune. The midday sunshine brought out an alligator, the sole warden of the place.

The Bradley River on the northeast coast of Ossabaw Island, where we anchored Frances B next, undercuts a shore of high sand bluffs and then flows south into the marshes. The high dunes of Bradley Point lead to a blazing-white Atlantic beach roughly 8 miles long. Nesting turtles — loggerheads, leatherbacks, greens and lately even a few olive ridleys — love it. Their nests are threatened by scavengers, such as raccoons and feral pigs, which are descended from farm animals imported by various previous owners of the island. Now that the island is a Heritage Preserve under the Georgia Department of Natural Resources, the feral pigs are culled annually, and the nests have better chances of survival. Also, volunteers guard the nests between May and September.

A forecast for strong northerly winds encouraged our departure before the swell could begin to break over the shoals scattered in Ossabaw Sound. The jagged line of high pines on Wassaw Island stood well-defined 4 miles away to the north, but a patchwork of shallow banks stood in the way. We navigated 10 cautious miles on a calm sea and rising tide to reach the well-protected Wassaw Creek. At its mouth we slowed down to watch four dolphins, the creek so thickly muddy that only the wakes of their dorsal fins let us follow their course. We passed so close that, when their heads appeared to breathe, we could see their eyes tracking us. The feeding was good — shoals of fish whipped the surface in a frenzy. At some point, a school of mullet shot out of the water onto a mud bank and the dolphins slid up in pursuit, then wiggled back into the creek.

We used a floating dock by the warden station of Wassaw Island National Wilderness Refuge as a base for treks ashore. Wassaw Island is really a series of parallel dunes covered with pines and live oaks that somehow eke nourishment from the sandy soil. At the back of the Atlantic beach, though, the Spanish bayonet (yucca) grows unusually tall, the size of small trees. The sea oats grow thick and happy on this shore, free from predation by the wild horses, wild donkeys and deer found on some other islands.

In May, the weather began warming up uncomfortably, at least to us who now thought of cooling off far north in the iceberg alleys off Labrador and Greenland. We suddenly realized that after leaving Georgia’s wild barrier islands, we wouldn’t experience real wilderness again until a landfall in Labrador — over 2,000 miles away.

• • •

Tom and Nancy Zydler, authors of the guide The Georgia Coast, Waterways and Islands, sailed north to spend the summer on the coasts of Labrador and Greenland after cruising Georgia. In 2018, they plan to cruise to seabird colonies and rookeries on the north shore of the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Newfoundland.

The post Georgia on my Mind appeared first on Cruising World.

Every October, yachts by the hundreds leave New England ports and head south for warmer latitudes. This annual migration follows two basic routes, offshore to Bermuda and then on to the Caribbean, or else along the coast, where destinations might include Florida, the Bahamas, or eventually a sail along the Thorny Path to the Virgin Islands and beyond.

In Bermuda, cruisers frequently wait for another spell of fair northerly winds to continue toward the Caribbean. But the island, located east of the Gulf Stream, can be difficult to reach, and isn’t by any means an ideal place to weather strong autumnal lows springing eastward from the mainland, nor an occasional tropical system barreling through in October or even November.

Most “snowbirds” instead stop in Block Island, at the eastern end of Long Island Sound; at the Hudson River; or in the lee of Sandy Hook, New Jersey. From there, they take off southward along the Jersey coast when a cold front is followed by northerly winds. New Jersey ports like Atlantic City and Cape May offer safe escapes when the wind switches to the south, signaling the approach of the next low.

Farther south, cruisers often wait for a break in Ocean City, Maryland, or Cape Henlopen’s Port of Refuge, on the edge of Delaware Bay. Then, somewhere off Cape Charles at the Chesapeake Bay entrance, it’s time to decide the next move. When a sailboat’s mast height exceeds 64 feet, the course around Cape Hatteras is the only option, since ICW fixed bridges have 64 feet of clearance at high tide. Considering that the mighty Gulf Stream flows north at a good clip, southbound yachts avoid it by sailing close to the shores of North Carolina’s barrier islands.

Weather plays a key factor in rounding Hatteras. Ocracoke Inlet — tricky, but the only usable one on that outer coast — can get quite nasty in onshore swells, so most offshore-bound yachts discount it. When conditions threaten the Cape Hatteras route, southbound boats, rather than get caught on the exposed coast, can divert to the marinas in Little Creek, Virginia, 10 miles west of Cape Henry, at the mouth of ­Chesapeake Bay. Little Creek is reached via Thimble Shoal Channel through the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. There, one waits for a good forecast before tackling Hatteras.

Those with a mast height under 64 feet, however, have more options. They can, of course, await a suitable weather window and head outside, but they can also take advantage of the protection offered by the Intracoastal Waterway.

A glance at the chart indicates the ocean route is shorter than the meanders of the ICW. However, when measured from Little Creek as a departure point, to Beaufort, North Carolina — the next important port on the way south — the two routes are about the same, at 190 nautical miles.

So on a recent transit, when the weather forecast rattled out three days of imminent southerlies, we sailed on through the Chesapeake Bridge-Tunnel gate. The waters smoothed out, and the ICW route, which I nicknamed the Great ­Hatteras Bypass, began to look very inviting. We’d move in daylight only, spending nights at anchor. The trip would take a few more days, but my wife, Nancy, and I figured, “Hey, let’s turn this passage into a cruise.” We’d be hobnobbing with nature and visiting a few interesting towns along the way.

The sky turned a livid purple, a sure sign of rain the next day, when, after passing a formidable gathering of U.S. Navy ships, we dropped anchor at Hospital Bight on the outskirts of Portsmouth, Virginia. Portsmouth offers good services to yachts: marinas and a large boatyard, as well as a free-of-charge yacht basin right downtown. A small ferry keeps chugging between here and the Nauticus National Maritime Center, a naval museum, and the battleship Wisconsin on the Norfolk side of Elizabeth River. The area has an industrial air that spans a few miles around it.

With our 7-foot draft, we had to miss a true natural wonder, the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, whose entrance is 6 statute miles south of Portsmouth. (Mileage along the ICW is measured in statute rather than nautical miles.) Our previous boat drew just under 6 feet and had allowed us to take this route on earlier trips. To transit the swamp is to travel through a green tunnel of forest trees with their branches locking overhead, surrounded by resounding birdcalls.

Instead, we chugged on 12 statute miles to Great Bridge Lock. South of the lock, the industrial vistas gave way, and the first sights of nature kicked in as flocks of Canada geese herded fuzzy chicks alongside the moving boats. Great Bridge, or strictly speaking, the town of Chesapeake, Virginia, was an easy place to stock up on groceries for the next few days. Yachts in need of inexpensive fuel and competent boat services of all kinds can dock or haul out at the Atlantic Yacht Basin just south of the lock and bridge. The bulkhead wharfs south of the lock and another south of the bridge welcome visiting yachts free of charge.

The Albemarle-Chesapeake Canal begins here. It’s a gateway to a freshwater passage all the way to Pamlico Sound. Although no tides vary the water levels, prolonged, strong northerly winds can reduce the depths by 3 to 4 feet for the next 100 miles. With our restrictive draft, we paid attention to the wind direction before taking off for North Landing River and Currituck Sound in North Carolina. This is a real osprey alley, with massive nests crowning channel beacons. Currituck Sound merges into Coinjock Bay and leads to the town of Coinjock, North Carolina; it’s a straight channel banked by yacht docks and restaurants famous for prime rib the size of wakeboards. From there, North River winds between shoals and marshes southward to Albemarle Sound.

Finally in the wide, deep waters of Albemarle Sound, sailboats can spread their wings. About midway across, we spotted an armada of lucky shallow-draft yachts running downwind from Elizabeth City after a passage via the Great Dismal Swamp Canal. I noticed no one carried on eastward and then south via Croatan Sound, toward Pamlico Sound, most likely because of the 45-foot bridge spanning that route.

In a fresh northwest breeze, we trimmed up for a fast close reach across Albemarle Sound toward Edenton, 35 miles away and a definite departure from the beaten track. “You go there and you will never want to leave” was a typical line we heard about the charms of Edenton.

A few hours later we tied up inside the boat basin downtown. Two minutes into a chat with a fellow fishing off the pier, he told us, “We came here from Wisconsin — the best move we ever made.” Edenton has undergone a phenomenal transformation since being known as “Rogue’s Harbor” in the 17th century. Within a few generations, in 1722, it ­became the capital of North Carolina. Joseph Hewes, a Northern, Quaker ship owner, moved to Edenton, became the first secretary of the Navy in 1776, and even gave his own vessels to reinforce the young naval fleet. John Adams called him the father of the U.S. Navy. Today Edenton is a genteel town of happy people with great walks among pretty homes that are typical of 19th-century Southern architecture.

A brisk sail two days later took us to the Alligator River swing bridge at the south end of Albemarle Sound, and on to the deep waters (11 feet or more) of Alligator River, its banks pure wilderness. Nature crowded closer in the Alligator River-Pungo River Canal, which cuts through flooded forests. Ashore, bald eagles perched on dead treetops and scanned the autumn-gold marshes for stray rodents. A flock of white geese or maybe trumpeter swans winged westward overhead, an unexpected visual bonus.

On this day of wafting light airs, the forecast announced 40-knot northerlies. Even with our 7-foot draft, there was usually a choice of anchorages among low marshes — good enough for moderate winds. Now we needed more protection. When a long stand of tall pines appeared on the upland shore a few miles east of Belhaven, we headed in and dropped anchor in 10 feet, less than a tenth of a mile from shore. All afternoon boats streamed to the marinas in Belhaven. Breakwaters protect the harbor there from the south, but its funnel-shaped inside waters face north, promising a choppy, windy night. A varnished mahogany 1920s-vintage motor­yacht passed nearby and then vanished into the creeks on the backside of Belhaven, where a hidden boatyard thrives. The yacht’s skipper obviously knew the unmarked vein of deeper water winding through the very shallow approach.

All night, gusts whistled and rattled the rigging, the offshore wind blowing the water out of the bay; by morning the depth sounder read 8 feet, the water having been blown down 2 feet. Eventually the northwesterly eased and gave us an easy run southward under power and genoa, all the way to Oriental, at the western border of Pamlico Sound.

Oriental is a place famed among veteran cruisers. The harbor being too shallow for our draft, we took advantage of a calm, anchored outside the breakwater, and dinghied in. Ashore we slipped a couple of available bicycles from the rack in front of the Inland Waterway Provision Company, a marine hardware store, to tour the streets. Oriental has an irresistible atmosphere with lovely homes and a port with sailboats in the majority, but a few salty trawler yachts and three shrimp boats remain to remind us that this little town began as a fishing village.

The deeper navigable waters of Neuse River, which joins Pamlico Sound off Oriental, end at New Bern. The community was once yet another capital of North Carolina (1776 to 1794) and the hub of commerce during colonial times. Surprisingly for us today, the merchant sailing ship traffic from Europe once reached New Bern through Ocracoke Inlet, then a deep, straight channel leading toward the resources of the New World. On the south edge of the town, a friendly bridge operator let us through to Trent River, with its two large marinas; filled with local craft, both keep a few slips open for transients. And like other coastal towns of North Carolina, New Bern maintains a free wharf and a floating dock in the waterfront park by the swing bridge.

Ashore, this town of 30,000-plus inhabitants is like nothing else on the East Coast. The skyline is right out of a Grimm Brothers fairy tale, with solid brick buildings —churches, banks and schools — that soar into towers that could belong to the castles in the medieval Swiss Alps or German Black Forest. The town founders, religious misfits from Switzerland and Germany who escaped persecution to England, made themselves such a nuisance that Queen Anne granted land in the Carolinas to their leader, a bankrupt Swiss baron. The town celebrated 300 years in 2010 and, since the word bern means “bear” in old German, challenged local talent to create bear sculptures. Now bears — hundreds of them — shaped in all manner of styles and materials dominate the town. A large mosque, complete with a giant onion dome, is such a surprise that one may easily miss a sign nearby commemorating a local chemist who concocted the Pepsi recipe in the 1890s.

We dropped down the Neuse River to Adams Creek, which leads south toward Beaufort, and soon the boat slowed down; the tides were back.

Beaufort would be our last stop on the Great Hatteras Bypass route. From there, we’d head back offshore, the next stretch of ICW being plagued with extremely shallow waters. Strong tides flow through Taylor Creek off the Beaufort waterfront, where a score or two of yachts try to anchor each afternoon. Add a strong wind against the current, and the place gets exciting. Taught by experience, we timed our arrival in Beaufort for late morning. By then, large numbers of moderate draft boats had left to continue on the ICW south of Morehead City.

If you stop in Beaufort, while ashore don’t miss a visit to the North Carolina Maritime Museum, with its unique presentation of traditional shoal-draft craft and a very complete library of maritime literature on yacht design and adventure under sail. A couple of full-service marinas and four boatyards in the immediate vicinity help prepare yachts for their offshore destinations ahead: either crossing the Gulf Stream on the way to the Caribbean, or sailing south along the East Coast to the many other winter destinations that await.

– – –

Tom and Nancy Zydler cruise the East Coast of the United States and Canada aboard their Mason 44, Frances B.

The post The Hatteras Bypass appeared first on Cruising World.