While tidying up Tidings, and ourselves, we’re startled by a husband and wife scuba diver team (whose metier is scrubbing the bottoms of boats in the harbor). I thought they were manatees. Doug tells a story about a scuba diver who repaired his centerboard pennant. He was befriended by manatees. So friendly, in fact, Doug had to distract them while the diver worked or they would muzzle their way into everything he was doing.
Recomposed and presentable, we walk across the tracks to the historic commercial district of Fernandina Beach, the heirloom brooch pinned to the bodice of Amelia Island.
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 Krispies 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.
It’s only a couple of hours from Marineland to the oldest city in the US – St. Augustine – where I will find, finally, a decent hat. A short, easy day. Doug makes another fine breakfast, we wash up, anchor up, and head north.
Trusty WoodenBoat cap works in a pinch.
Soon the linear dredged canal relaxes into winding creeks and marshes, the Matanzas River proper. Drawbridges spring from clusters of houses that appear along the shore more frequently. We enter a patchwork quilt of history loosely stitched together – ruins of colonial era Spanish fortifications, new McMansions next to an old Victorian from 1862 at the start of the Civil War, rustic fish camps from the 1900s, wilderness as it was before Europeans arrived. Every mile under the keel takes us forward or back decades, but the trend is definitely backward in time until we reach St. Augustine.
We spent a few days with friends on the Northern Neck, in the village of Morattico on the Rappahannock. We shared an old farmhouse built in the early 1900s, like many you still find all across Tidewater, with a good dock on a broad and winding tidal creek – perfect for paddling and small boat sailing.
I brought a Melonseed, but it rained the first two days, so didn’t get it in the water. Instead we spent relaxing days on the big wrap-around porch, reading in swinging sofas and doing puzzles. Like the best country homes, there’s as much living space outside as in – outdoor showers, a fire pit, and patios under the trees. In the evenings we went for local oysters at Merroir, and ice cream at flower shop in White Stone.
We eat really well. Doug is a good cook, and likes doing it. All the food for at least three days is stored in a pantry bin of dry goods and a medium Yeti cooler with a bag of ice. He’s been doing this long enough – thousands of miles – that he has a good system down.
That said, space is so tight you have to move two things to get to the one thing you need, then move the two things back so you can get out. It’s like a Rubik’s Cube of gear and supplies. He makes the best of it, for sure.
Once I finish shifting and shuffling and fetching per captain’s needs, I’m free to relax on deck while the cabin becomes the galley, while the steward and chef take over.
Modern navigation is a true wonder. Satellite mapping and imagery, GPS, digital charts, crowd-sourced sonar bathymetry, and the shareability of the internet, all make even detailed local knowledge available to anyone. Even with all that, though, reality still imposes limits.
Doug spends many winter nights carefully plotting courses and stopovers using all available tools for the coming season. But even the best information can become stale and outdated before you have a chance to use it. A single storm can change the location of channels and shift shoals overnight. This is especially true in the shallow waters of the southern coast, where sandbars swept by strong tides can snake offshore for 10 miles, and inlets will open and close suddenly in really big storms.
Pellicer Creek beyond the sandbar
The spot chosen to anchor for the night is a side creek just outside the ditch, just inside the Princess Place Preserve, where a string of small islands separate the ICW from a broad expanse of open water called Pellicer Creek.
Notes in the chart book from other boaters recommend it as a good anchorage, with 6 feet of water outside the channel. Tidings only draws 2 feet with the board up. Easy peezy. But just to be safe, Doug lowers the motor to idle, reducing our speed to around 1 knot. He has me steer between two islands for the open water while he watches the depthfinder.
Just after daybreak. It’s almost time to shove off and I have to find a hat. It’s technically still Spring, but the sun here is blazing hot, relentless, and I don’t have a good hat. Couldn’t figure out how to pack one in the carryon for the flight. This is my quest, to be completed before breakfast. I have thirty minutes. I will fail.
Stowage on Tidings is super tight. No room for suitcases, just one collapsable duffel. Everything I can bring for the next three weeks has to fit in a ten gallon cooler box. (And a doctor bag of tech gear, on special dispensation from the captain.) I could not figure out how to pack my favorite straw hat. Figured, “It’s Florida, right? Lots of hats down there. You know, for the tourists.”
