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.
The next leg turns out to be the most interesting yet. Another long one at nearly 30 miles. It will lead across the St. John’s River past a military shipyard, then into a series of mostly wild and winding linked creeks through broad empty marshes, around small remote islands, across Nassau Sound, and finally up the west side of Amelia Island, where we hope to meet with the family of a friend for dinner. If we can get there in time.
The tidal current is for now in our favor, so we quickly finish breakfast and get underway to take advantage of it. One of the things you soon learn on these waterways is to pay close attention to the tides. Not so much to have water under the keel (we’re a small boat), but to ride the currents like sledding hills. Timing of your runs can make the difference between four hours of easy travel, or seven slow hours all uphill. If you time it right, it’s all downhill both ways.
We want to ride the outgoing tide to the St. John’s River, then push across into the marshes on the other side, up to “the head of tide”. This is like the peak of the next hill, where water flows inland around islands from two directions meets. The opposing currents butt heads there and cancel each other out. From there we ride down the other side, then catch the next incoming tide up the Nassau River and along the length of Amelia. At least, that’s the plan.
At the first bridge we can already see the effect. The outgoing current almost doubles our speed.
As we approach the St. John’s, though, we have a steep uphill climb through a tricky stretch of water. All the water coming down the river is against us. And the ICW has been dredged and rerouted, likely to keep traffic away from the shipyard. It now runs along a hardened artificial shoreline to port, with submerged rocks on starboard.
We barely make 2 knots against the current. There’s some concern we may not have enough power to keep us off the rocks. On the radio we hear Coast Guard reports of a boat aground nearby, which is not at all reassuring.
We slog on, and run high past the entrance to Sisters Creek on the opposite shore to avoid getting swept down into the shipyard as we cross. Then make the turn across the river and slip into the mouth of the creek, where the current eases immediately. Rising high above us is the rusty hulk of a large bulk carrier. Doug thinks it’s a dredge dumper, made for hauling spoil out to sea, with doors that swing open underneath like railroad coal cars. One man in a hard hat clatters away with a jackhammer and grinder up on the superstructure like he’s firing a machine gun, the only visible worker on board.
Just inside Sisters Creek
Once into Sisters Creek it’s like we’ve entered another world. We can raise sail again and cut the engine. We glide past shore birds and empty islands. A pod of dolphins feeds alongside and follows us. The tide is almost ebbed here, so the channel is shallow and narrow.
At a turn in the creek we pass a large sail cruiser hard aground on the inside of the curve, canted over in the mud. An inflatable dinghy bumps the hull beside it. Maybe the one in the alerts on the radio? If anyone is onboard, they are hiding down below. The name on the boat is “Mad Max”. I bet he’s mad, too.
At Nassau Sound we swing out into the wide river. Here we have both wind and incoming tide in our favor, with the southern tip of Amelia Island to starboard. Across the sound we head up the South Amelia River. Manatees do lazy rolls at the surface, and white pelicans glide in sleepy undulating lines over the waves.
Our destination is the far north end at Fernandina Beach – our last stop before we finally exit Florida. (Wahoo!) We have made good time. But Amelia is a long island. We still have 12 miles to go. By late afternoon we lose the wind and tide and fire up the diesel to cover the last few miles.
Approaching the harbor we find the first of many surprises. Fernandina Beach is a lovely, very old southern town. But it’s bookended by two very large pulp mills. We could see the first one for miles as we made our way north. Another pod of dolphins is feeding at the surface as we finally pass it just south of town. Beyond that, tied up at a wobbly wharf is a string of shrimp boats that look mostly retired. Fernandina Beach has a long history in the shrimp fishing industry, so maybe these are just here for decoration; a nod to the old days before shrimp was farmed overseas and made local fishing for them unprofitable.
The harbor is large and welcoming, though, and mostly full. We get fuel and a slip and much needed showers before walking into town for dinner.
Marina at Fernandina Beach, Amelia IslandCaptain’s Lounge at the marina, complete with showers, wifi, coffee, fridge, and wifi. A+ accommodations.
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 almost full dark when I get back to the marina. From the shore I can see Doug has a boom light in the cockpit, playing guitar.
We are tied up by the dinghy dock, where people come and go in zodiacs to their big yachts out in the mooring field. Some boats are too big for the docks. Many stop to ask questions and marvel that we travel so far in a boat so small.
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.
One of our daughters and son-in-law moved overseas eight years ago. We tried for years to go see them. As teachers, they have regular breaks to travel. Our simple idea was to meet them somewhere, anywhere. But a worldwide pandemic got in the way, among other things. Plans were made, and cancelled, and made again and cancelled again. It happens. Finally, eight years later, everything fell into place.
They now live in the desert of Saudi Arabia, so they wanted to go somewhere wet and green for spring break. Where else but The Netherlands?
Water everywhere
We spent a week in a small cottage in the country, a bit north of Amsterdam. Water everywhere. And windmills. The nearest town of Zaandijk has a train station, bakery, brewery, and couple of cafes, and was just a short bike ride away. A ride along dikes and levees past a dozen working windmills.
Cafe in Zaandijk
One evening we took the train back from Amsterdam. We walked from the station to the cottage, stopping for dinner in a small cafe. After dinner, we walked the rest of the way back in the moonlight. It was amazing, the windmills whooshing overhead like giant birds flapping in a starry sky. Flocks of geese and ducks in the canals and the polders cackled, adding to the surreal effect.
One morning while the others eased slowly out of bed, I rode by as the windmill crews were just opening up. Several of the mills earn their keep doing the same work they’ve done for hundreds of years. One is a working sawmill. At that early hour there were no crowds to contend with – I was the only visitor. Most of the crews are older men who work the mill, and a few young apprentices have joined them. One of the old Dutch guys saw how interested I was and gave me a personal tour, explaining in detail how it all works (in fluent English), and the history of that particular mill.
“The Young Sheep”Young Apprentices
This mill, Het Jong Schaap (“The Young Sheep”), had been in continuous operation for over 400 years, right up until WWII and the Nazi Occupation. Things became so desperate during the war that townspeople needed to dismantle the mill for firewood. But before they did, they documented in detail every piece they removed. Years after the war those plans were found. Funds were raised and the mill rebuilt exactly as it was, along with many others along the Zaans River.
Work Shoes
Inside the mill, I was immediately struck by the sound – it’s like being inside an enormous breathing animal. The pace of respiration rises and falls with natural rhythm of the wind. From slow and steady, like the beast is sleeping, to rapid and muscular.
The canvas on the vanes are trimmed like sails to match the strength of the wind, and the whole head is turned with a crank to follow the wind direction as well, just like a sailing ship. In fact, as he was explaining how the gears work, he suddenly stopped short and made a quick adjustment to take advantage of a gust, which he heard instinctively – just like we do in our small wooden boats. “Just the same, it’s the same principle,” he said.
After the sound, there’s smell of fresh sawdust, and everywhere the rich golden glow of sunlight on wood. No reek of petroleum or exhaust, no screech and whine of industrial motors. Just heaving and sighing.
The whole apparatus is built like a big clock inside, and every step of the process is automated and facilitated by the power of the wind harnessed by the vanes. A windlass winds a hawser that hauls logs from the river up the ramp and into the mill, then lifts them onto a carriage where the log is dogged in place. Then another gear, ticking like a slow second hand watch gear, moves the log and carriage steadily into the blades as they pump up and down, the blades driven by a crank shaft turned in the attic by the wind.
The blades are spaced with wooden blocks measured down to the millimeter. Using a combination of blades and spacers, they can cut thin planks and thick timbers from the same log in a single pass. With good wind, they can cut three logs at once, running all three saws side by side.
Spacer blocks, sorted to millimeter precision.
My guide, knowing I was a sailor, told me they recently had a commission to make a new mast for a large sailing ship. Cut eight sided and tapered. They used a single log 40 feet long, floated down rivers and canals from the Black Forest in Germany. There are small doors at the back of the mill just for this purpose – opened to let oversized pieces extend out through the walls.
