Morning comes a little early. I spent much of the night listening to a persistent crackling noise that seemed to come from the water around the hull. Like electrical wires sparking. One of the odd things about these warm southern waters is the Snapping Shrimp, which sound like Rice Crispies when you pour milk on them. These shrimp are tiny, but crazy loud. So loud they interfere with navy sonar. And light sleepers, apparently. Who knew?
We have two thirty mile legs ahead of us before the next marina stop, so we need to leave early. But first we must continue Doug’s quest for a phone case, which proves as elusive as The Fountain of Youth. Our walk through town is fine if unfruitful.
We stop random strangers and ask if they have seen this wondrous thing. Like most local legends, everyone has heard of it, but offer a different theory for where it might be. This is exactly what the natives did when conquistadors asked “Where’s the gold? Where’s The Fountain of Youth?” Not wanting a bunch of twitchy armed strangers hanging about, the locals always pointed vaguely off into the distance, “We heard about a thing like that over yonder.” Whereupon the raiders would thrash off through the swamps to the next village.
Fitting that our fruitless perambulations circumnavigate the Hotel Ponce. The conquistador Ponce de Leon was famous in schoolbooks for his quest for the magical Fountain of Youth. There’s even a theme park devoted to him and his quest here in St. Augustine, where he supposedly landed and it all began. Fitting also, that Ponce never mentioned this quest at all in any of his writings. It’s likely a fable made up long after his death, and equally likely he never even landed here. History may be written by the victors, but so are myths and outright lies. Maybe they’re all the same.
Regardless, like the conquistador who was never here, we leave just as empty handed. We decant the rich stew of myth and culture that is St. Augustine, cast off and head north again on the river of massacres, under the drawbridge and over the inlet. And I, at least, have a new very satisfactory hat.
Crossing the inlet we learn again that charts and channel markers also tell lies. While reading notes left by other boaters, that the soundings and marked channels can’t be trusted, we touch bottom halfway across – on a falling tide no less. We quickly recoil and reroute to the far eastern shore, where deep water has segued outside the marked channel.
Here we enter the mouth of the Tolomato River, which retains most of its wide natural course for the next 15 miles. We have a fair wind and can sail for several hours in relative peace, a welcome break from the rattatat percussion of the diesel engine. Beyond that, several more miles of dredged ditch, more bridges and houses; then the upper reaches of Pablo Creek, which will take us around Jacksonville to our anchorage at Neptune Beach by dark.
It’s an interesting stretch of water, a mix of marshes and swamps interspersed with industry and waterside homes. Enough variety to break up the monotony. Swamps on one side, mansions on the other. We pass a lively restaurant right on the canal with music and waving patrons. Some cruisers, an old shrimp boat at anchor, apparently still used for commercial fishing.
Near Jacksonville Beach, an outboard skiff buzzes by and makes a U-turn to come alongside. It’s hard to make out what he’s saying over the engine noise, but the graybeard pilot claims to recognize us from the Chesapeake. He’s a member of the Catboat Association, and normally hails from Maryland. Shouts something about calling him when we get back and an invitation to visit; then waves and motors off. But no contact info was offered, so we’re in no danger of a second meeting.
Near Neptune Beach the sun is getting low. We anchor just outside the channel in the mouth of a small creek flowing out of the march. We’ll have courtside seats for boats and barges passing, and some do, but have the marsh as a buffer between us and homes on the shore. Doug whips up another tasty meal of sirloin strips in mushroom gravy and a side of couscous. Then he’s out cold after the long day before the stars come out.
A cool breeze keeps the bugs away, and swings the stern to the north. I can sit comfortably with a view of car lights gliding over the Atlantic Boulevard Bridge. A green beacon blinks on the channel marker. Both bridge and beacon are reflected in the water. Life imitates art. On the shore across the marsh, a house stays lit up all night like a lawn party at Gatsby’s, in full view of Daisy’s beckoning blinker.
I’m up before the sun. It’s still and quiet, the water is a slick mirror of rose gold. Noseeums find us and spoil the view a little. They get into my hair and ears while Doug heats water. I pull on a hoody to keep them off until a breeze yawns, stretches, and shuffles over for coffee. A really beautiful morning.
Video of this leg.