Most people think the captain is always in charge. But there is a brief window every day, ordained by a certain alignment of celestial bodies, when a lowly deckhand is lifted to the pinnacle of importance and completely supersedes the captain’s authority.
This occurs when the sun is in ascension, perpendicular to the zenith, in contact with the horizon. At this precise moment a portal opens. Like a Druid at the solstice in Stonehenge, Buddha beneath the Bodhi Tree, Newton struck by the apple, a muezzin singing the sun to prayer from the top of a minaret, the lowly peon is transformed, becomes a priest in service of a god. He becomes “The Barista”.
Voices are hushed, movements slow and subdued, until the sacrament is complete. The magical elixir is handed up to each member of the crew for their ablutions. At which point normal order resumes, and he who moments ago held the very mysteries of the universe in his hands, is once again a shambling swabbie, sent forward to haul up the anchor from the mud.
Such is the importance of hot coffee on a cold and misty November morning.
Mug of joe in hand, we motor out into sunrise on a mirror of polished brass. Dazzled by the light, we drift out of the winding channel until the keel brushes bottom and we ease her back.
We round Stingray Point and head north across the mouth of the Rappahannock River toward Windmill Point. Birds perch on the poles of fish traps like crucifixes. The sun boils the mist and lifts it overhead, a breeze riffles the water now and then.
Back in mid-November, I was having coffee in pajamas when I got a message from a fellow sailor and boat builder, Jim. Would I be interested in dropping whatever I was doing to go sailing for a couple of days? Short notice, long story? Apparently, Jim knows me well. I have learned the hard way, however, to ask for a few details before jumping on YES with both feet.
His son Jonathan bought an old Stone Horse down in North Carolina. He is bringing it home to Maryland, and is suddenly short on crew. I know Jonathan from the Mid-Atlantic Small Craft Festival. He has a good Youtube channel and an active Instagram account. I’m familiar with the venerable Stone Horse. My friend Michael Bogoger, aka Doryman, had one that his sister Elaine now owns, and both love it. A nice gallery of photos from Michael are here:
Seems unlikely, but I mention it to Terri, how it would be fun but not sure how to work it out. Just so happens, says T, she will be in DC in a couple of days and can pick me up at journey’s end. Would be willing to drive me down, too. Enough details fall into place that thirty-six hours later I am in Hampton Roads, walking the docks with my duffle, looking for a ship.
Loon at anchor in Hampton River
T graciously got up before daylight to drive me the three hours to the coast. Just after sunrise we find Jonathan and his departing crew unloading gear on the docks from a dinghy, with the Stone Horse Loon anchored out in the Hampton River. They look weary, but happy.
Turns out, they had been up even before we were that day. The original plan was to crew with Jonathan the whole way. They left their car in Maryland for the drive back to NC. Weather and mechanical issues delayed things, enough they now had to jump ship here, midway, to get back to NC for other commitments. But their car was still in Maryland, 175 miles away. The past 24 hours were spent renting a car, then driving to Maryland and back to shuttle their own car to Hampton, into which they were now transferring all their gear for the drive to NC and a formal ball that night.
Seems like the land-based part of any boat trip is always the most complicated.
T waved before heading off for breakfast as Jonathan and I rowed out to Loon. We raised anchor and motored out into Hampton Roads, and Jonathan caught me up on the current plan.
The Stone Horse is a solid seagoing cutter rigged sloop, set up well for single-handing. But being new to the boat and her foibles, he knew it was unwise to try and finish the trip alone. Too many things can go wrong. Already the main halyard jammed leaving NC, then the prop on the outboard had to be replaced. Then there’s the weather. Hence the delays so far. Without an extra set of hands to manage the boat while you deal with them, small problems quickly become big problems.
There’s a big weather front coming, too, so we have to go 100 miles in two days and reach port before the bad weather reaches us. Assuming nothing else goes wrong, we’ll have good weather until then, but we have two long days ahead.
We exit Hampton Roads with the USS Kearsarge as it leaves the Norfolk base for Denmark. An ambitious assault ship, it looks huge; but an aircraft carrier is half again bigger. We raise sail in the Chesapeake Bay as the Kearsarge transits the Bridge Tunnel and disappears over the horizon.
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.
On Sunday morning, many with long drives hauled out. A few of us, locals or those staying over, headed out to take advantage of the great weather with another sail. Chris H came all the way from Pittsburg, so he was staying another day to make it worth the trip. He invited me to join him on his Vivier Ilur Clarissa. Dennis K got a ride on Randy C’s William Garden designed Eel, Winkle. Harris and Barbara led the way in their new catboat, Mariah, just delivered mid-summer.
Winkle chasing Mariah
It was a real treat for me to be able to lay in the boat and let Chris do all the work, while I enjoyed the view. It let me keep both hands on the camera for a change. And what a great day for it. Beautiful boats and beautiful weather.
All three boats danced around each other all afternoon. Sometimes coming together close enough to chat, then veering off to points on the horizon. With the chuckle of water on a lapstrake hull tapping time.
As usual, most of our views of Harris were of his transom. He can’t bear to slow down enough for us to get close.
I shot a lot of video. Something to savor over the coming winter.
A nice reprieve from the middle of winter. This is 20+ minutes of sites and sounds from the salt marshes of Mathews County, Virginia. A week on a remote barrier island in the Chesapeake Bay. Over the holidays I had time to go back and review it.
We spent a lot of time kayaking through the shallow winding creeks, often just drifting with the current.
It’s long, so give yourself some time, and good audio – much of this is just the natural sounds of birds and beaches.
The odd noises starting at 12:00 are Clapper Rails. They’re really shy, I’ve never seen one up close, but one stepped out of the grass for a closeup, not realizing we were standing above it on the dock.
Birds seen and/or heard in the video:
Black Scoter
Sandpiper
Clapper Rail
Hooded Merganser
Boat-tailed Grackle
Double-crested Cormorant
Great Blue Heron
At night, there were Great Horned Owls, in the mornings Loons.
Short clips from the trip. I didn’t have the wind cover for the mic, so as not much natural audio this time, but enough to feel right. Doug provided the nice clip of me as we crossed tacks along the bluff below Rosegill.
You can see how lumpy it was when we first left the harbor. Lots of bucking into the wind until the tide turned.
Sailing along the bluff below Rosegill Plantation. Frame from a video clip by Doug.
I pull slowly through town to the harbor. It’s almost noon, but the air is cool as I get out and start rigging. Urbanna is like Scottsville on the Rappahannock instead of the James. Nearly the same size and population, with the same small town vibe. Locals all know each other, and know who is “from away”. If you’re from away, you’re a “Come Here”. I am asked several times “Where y’all from?” – in a cheerful friendly way, truly interested to hear your stories. Inevitably this leads into long conversations, teasing out, without being too direct: “Who are your people?”, “What brought you here?”
You don’t get that as much in a big city.
There’s also the brother/sisterhood of boating that creates a quick affinity – “Lovely boat, did you built it?” – which, in the case of these small Melonseeds, leads into shared stories of small boats fondly remembered from growing up on the water.
Doug is delayed in traffic out on the interstate, which is fine because I’m always slow getting ready. I walk to the office to pay the ramp fee. In the small office the harbor master is on the radio with someone he seems to know. I make a hand motion like sliding down an incline, “You’re fine. Go ahead, I’ll come find you.” I nod and leave $20 on the desk.
He wanders out with a receipt and a boat hook as I putter with sails and line, and this exchange turns into a pleasant 20 minute conversation. He’s tall, lanky, and tan, with longish grey wind tossled hair. Wants to know all about the Melonseeds. Tells me about his cruiser up at the end of the dock. Turns out he knows Scottsville well. His niece is opening the Montessori School there, which was big news in our small town. So we cover all the bases noted above, including how this part of the Rappahannock is like coming home for me. He fills me in on some of the local news, of the latest efforts by developers to turn the town into another Virginia Beach. At the moment it’s the historic property across the harbor, Rosegill, that’s in their sites. I know some of the history of the place, both colonial and contemporary. It has changed hands and plans several times just in my lifetime. The new owners are developers with big plans that don’t have much to do with history.
Rosegill main house, via VRBOCruising the harbor
Doug arrives, and in a few minutes we’re launched. It’s been a long time since we sailed in the Melonseeds; much longer for Doug since he got the Marsh Cat. And we’ve both had lots of job and house stuff to keep us away too long. So we noodle around the town harbor in Urbanna Creek a bit to be sure everything is shipshape, then head out the channel to the open River.
It’s a beautiful day, with clear skies and the first hint of fall. A cool breeze is coming out of the north at a steady 12-15mph. Perfect. The wind is against the tide, though. At this turn of the Rappahannock, there’s about 10 miles of fetch. No whitecaps, but a little lumpy in the open river. The current will reverse mid-afternoon, so we tack back and cruise along the shore. A long rock jetty protects the mouth of the harbor and today it makes a breakwater perpendicular to the wind. This leaves a half mile of flat water with good wind along shore, so we spend a couple of hours skimming back and forth, near shore and farther out, pass each other sometimes or head off in opposite directions.
Grand old boathouse of Rosegill still stands in the harbor.
This bank east of the harbor is lined by a high sandy bluff that runs for more than a mile, the whole stretch is part of the aforementioned Rosegill Plantation. Originally a grant of over 3000 acres from the King of England, it dates to 1649. A modest spread that was the summer home of the new English owner. That makes it older than Williamsburg, and only a few years later than the first settlement at Jamestown.
Of course, it was older than that. It had been home of the the Nimcock tribe. I understand their name is an Algonquin word that means, “Indians who live in towns”. They had whole villages with homes and common houses surrounded by protective palisades. They, of course, were not consulted when a King across the ocean declared it all now belonged to the latest Come Heres. The whole tribe was moved upriver.
A port was built at Urbanna Creek to ship tobacco back to Europe, duty free, the first profitable crop out of the colonies. Colonial plantations, like all those that came later, created little solar systems of economic activity, like a form of gravity that attracts more people. Before long, an older version of The Company Town emerged on the banks of the harbor. Some buildings still uphill from the harbor date to before the Revolutionary War. Beyond those, in concentric orbits, are homes and churches and other buildings constructed in each new era – before the Civil War, before World Wars I & II and beyond, up to the present day.
Rosegill remained a working plantation for most of that – through Indian Wars, Revolutionary Wars, Civil Wars, World Wars – remaining in the same family for five generations, well over two centuries. The fifth generation son and heir was an ardent Tory, vocally loyal to the King throughout the war for Independence. This did not sit well with his neighbors. He was subsequently banished to western Virginia, and the house was promptly pillaged by his Tory privateer buddies. Seems he didn’t suffer too badly, though – he only had to go as far as another family estate, his father’s 10,000 acre shooting preserve in the mountains of what is now West Virginia. He returned later, joined the new government in Williamsburg, and retained the estate until his death in the 1800s.
The property has exchanged hands many times since then. There’s an extensive collection of old photos here:
After an hour or two cruising along the brow of the bluff, the tidal current reverses and the sea settles down. We round the jetty and head northwest, reaching upriver.
A mile ahead I steer for a white sand beach in the lee of the bar at the mouth of Robinson Creek. A good place to get out and stretch. I coast to a stop among myrtle and mallow and Doug soon follows. But what looked like just sand turns out to be largely a narrow bar of old oyster shells, with a quiet tidal pond on the other side. The shells are bleached white, with all the sharp edges worn off. Likely this bar was an old midden of some kind.
This section of the Rappahannock was once lined with oyster shucking houses, on both sides of the river for miles. Another commodity that brought boom times after tobacco, Chesapeake Oysters were famous all up and down the East Coast. Those shucking and canning operations produced mountains of shell, enough to pave roads and, when there was nowhere else to put them, build land where there was none. This whole spit could have started as the place where shells were dumped back into the river. Or, before that, Native Americans also made oyster shell middens of their own. I’m speculating, but these creeks were ideal for oysters, and the deep water protected harbors ideal for shipping.
Thinking about oysters makes us hungry, and the sun is getting low. We push off for an easy broad reach all the way back. There’s just enough wind to wind into the harbor. People in sailboats, pontoon boats, and cruisers pass slowly, smile and wave. People on the beach at Bailey Point smile and wave. Very pleasant business, and a gentle glide up to the ramp in town.
As I pull slowly through town on narrow streets through neighborhoods, people I spoke with earlier in the day, out washing up their boats in the yard or tending a garden, recognize me and a wave, one shouts “Come back soon!”
We land again on Robinson Creek further up this time, pulling the boats behind us, to a working seafood wharf that’s also a rustic restaurant on stilts out over the water. Same place where Vera and John brought us on our quest for Soft Crabs back in May.
I have not eaten since breakfast. With a couple of cold beers, we each polish off a dozen local oysters, a half pound of spiced shrimp, and a Soft Crab sandwich with a side of slaw. Easily.
A fine end to a really fine day, one much needed. I think we will be back soon.
