We have our first Halloween onboard Canto at Northwest Creek. We visit a few boats at the docks, then head to Fairfield Harbor (we borrow one of the carts to give a ride to the kids). The kids dress up as sailors in their brand-new offshore foul weather gear. They look very cute! Could you resist giving them candy?
The Halloween in Fairfield Harbor is very good, with some folks putting on quite a show (caskets, mummies, witches, goblins, and so forth). They hand out quality candy here (including some for Mom and Dad), and we all have a great time.
We finish the teak toerail with Cetol and Cetol Gloss. It looks fabulous, very comparable with the varnish on the other teak (in fact, better, as the other varnish is yellowing). Our only regret is that we didn't do ALL the teak with it.
We are ready to leave, but must wait a few more days because, ever since eating lunch in town during our provisioning trip, Angie is sick and can hold nothing down. We suspect food poisoning, and figure that it will take three days or so to get over it. Luke's spirits are certainly not dampened, and he practices doing headstands in the V-berth.
Herb Hilgenberg's forecasts are unbeatable for their precision and accuracy. Herb informs us that our weather window for departure has come and gone, but it's early still, so we head for Beaufort to await the next window. Angie is taking longer to get over her food poisoning than we'd anticipated, but we decide that she can convalesce in Beaufort as well as she can in New Bern.
Beaufort is fun for a couple of days, and is pretty convenient for longer stays, too. There is free Internet access within walking distance, plenty of restaurants (the Old Time Store, which sells ice cream, also serves good breakfast and lunch). Beaufort also gets kind of old for longer stays, and we are getting really eager to leave.
Daily radio contact with Herb puts us in touch with other cruisers who are headed for the Caribbean. We are delighted to meet the crews of White Rabbits from Canada, Zenobia from Oriental, Llewana from Germany, and some others.
Angie's food poisoning has been hanging on for more than 3 days. We now begin to think that her persistent sickness may be a sign of some other condition. We decide that she should go ashore and pick up an EPT. She does, and it's positive -- this particular medical condition will last for another eight months or so, though the sickness should pass in another month or two. Alas, now she's sick day and night - not an auspicious way to start an ocean voyage.
A marginal window opens up, and Herb advises that those masochistic enough to depart will be buffetted by a few days of 20-25 knot headwinds three days in. We are really itching to leave, but based on Angie's condition, we decide to stay put. A couple of other boats head out and are, indeed pounded a few days later. One loses his engine and must put into Bermuda for repairs.
Just about the time we're ready to throw in the towel and head down the ICW, Herb announces a "short" weather window of light southerlies (for crossing the Gulfstream) followed by strong (25kts) northwesterlies, good for heading east. Angie is still sick off and on, but she has always done well with Scopalamine which, we figure, may even reduce her "morning sickness." So, we decide it's time to leave. Early the next morning, November 19, we leave.
We slip out very early on November 19. Angie is sick, and we can't tell if it's the morning sickness or the Scop patch not working. The seas are a bit confused, and the wind is light, so we motor and the motion is not entirely comfortable. The skipper decides to raise the mainsail to help keep down the rolling, but in the conditions, it slats around too much, so we lower it again.
By noon, we are entering the Gulfstream. It's really quite beautiful, and we go from winter gear to shorts and T-shirts. The swells ease out with a longer period and steady motion. They're about 6-8 feet high, and roll under us without impeding us. The wind is still light. The sea is a beautiful deep blue, and the water is crystal clear. Angie seems to be holding together for the moment, so the skipper goes down for a short nap.
After a very pleasant nap, the skipper is awakened by a pleading crew. Angie is holding nothing down, and is starting to feel quite weak; she wants to head back. The Scop patch is simply not working, and things are looking quite grim. We're at the axis of the Gulfstream, and there's a little bit of wind. We turn around but, at seeing the disappointment on the skipper's face, she agrees to give it some more time. The skipper gleefully turns back on course and decides to raise the main to take advantage of the freshening breeze and, again, ease the motion.
As the sail is hoisted, the skipper discovers that the leech seam has torn open - about 24 inches - probably due to the earlier slatting, but really attributable to sun rot of the sail. Attempts to sew the material back together reveals a panel which is too sun-rotted to be sewn. In an attempt to ward off this sort of thing (and since the skipper was too busy doing varnish to personally take care of it), we had had a sailmaker in New Bern look over the sail before setting off, and had them put a fresh row of stitches in each seam. The sailmaker must have missed this when he went over our sails for us in the Spring. Of course, it occurs to the skipper that we have enough sail tape to make the repair, and enough material onboard to replace a couple of panels in the sail, and a storm trysail which we could hoist in rough weather or if the mainsail became useless, but he has an epiphony: being on the open ocean for up to 12 days with only one functional crew (himself), a very sick pregnant wife, and with two young children is probably not the best way to make it to the Caribbean; if we should lose the baby, it would be tragic. Just like that, our cruising plans are changed, but that's how it is with life sometimes.
We can't change the wind, but we can change the trim of our sails.
We arrive in Beaufort at around 10pm and anchor right at the end of the channel. The next morning, we're feeling pretty low -- we just can't bear Beaufort another day. We decide that the thing to do is to move. South. So, at first light, we pull up the anchor and slip quietly out of Beaufort harbor.
About one hour into our trip, we are hailed by White Rabbits on the VHF. Since they left with us about 24 hours ago, and were travelling faster than us, they must be over 130 miles away - that's a heck of a transmitter they have considering VHF is good for only about 30 miles (tops)! Sunspots? We answer and they hear us! It turns out they are about 1/2 mile behind us on the ICW, just by Morehead City and in plain view.
White Rabbits has a roller-furling mainsail, and their mainsail came out of its track overnight. They turned around and arrived in Morehead City around 3am. We know how they feel! It's most unfortunate that they had to turn around, but if you're feeling miserable, it's nice to have some company.
We head to Swansboro. Again, White Rabbits goes faster than us, and quickly passes us. Like us, they have no set destination - just south. We make Swansboro, but it does not draw us ashore. White Rabbits heads farther on - they want to be in the Bahamas before Christmas, and are going to be pressing hard.
The next day, we arrive in Wrightsville Beach, where we intend to stay for Thanksgiving. Wrightsville Beach is pretty nice - there's a West Marine nearby, some very nice public facilities (no toilets, but an outdoor shower and free dinghy docks), and an easy walk to the beach. While we're walking on the beach, we meet another family and ask them if they know of a place open for Thanksgiving Dinner. They are travelling too -- by car -- and inform us of a Cracker Barrel nearby. We thank them for the information and begin to walk away, then Kristina confides in them that we don't have a car, and sighs, saying "I guess we'll have that canned turkey that Mom packed." They smile and walk away, but a minute later, return and offer us a ride there and back, so we have a Thanksgiving lunch at Cracker Barrel. Afterwards, we spend a pleasant afternoon playing on the beach with our new friends.
Luke and the Skipper go fishing, and, using ham from an uneaten sandwich, catch a couple of undersized spots, which they throw back. Very fun!After Thanksgiving, the forecast starts to mention rain and overcast conditions. We figure that Wilmington will have more to offer for shoreside diversion during the rain than Wrightsville, so we move on to Wilmington.
Wilmington is a bit out of the way for travellers heading south. One has to go up the Cape Fear river for some distance to get there. We had read, however, that there was free dockage for transients at the city docks, and figured this would be easier for dealing with the anticipated rain.
The long trip up the Cape Fear is not scenic. Ships, yards, factories, etc. adorn the coastline. We figure, however, that Wilmington will not be like this, that it will be more scenic - anyplace that rolls out the welcome mat for transients by providing free dockage can't be bad.
We arrive at the free docks and are met by the new dockmaster, who promptly informs us of the rate. Rate? Unbeknownst to us, the marina has begun charging for transients ($1/ft/night). This blows our plan to hang out for free!! Transients can use the bathrooms in the adjacent hotel, but there are no showers, and there is no electricity or water. We are not about to pay for this type of dockage and about to leave -- we'll find someplace to overnight -- when the dockmaster tells us we can stay for one night free. He is also nice enough to bring the Skipper to a local fuel station with his truck so we can add 10 gallons of diesel to our tanks, in preparation of going offshore from Southport to Charleston. Despite the kind dockmaster, we are unimpressed with Wilmington, which is about all we can say about that place. (This is about when we remember that Captain Neon (aka Bob) hadn't enjoyed the city either.)
The next morning, bright and early, we cast off in overcast conditions to head for Southport, or to head offshore to Charleston. We figure that, if the conditions are not right for offshore passages, at least we'll be closer to the ocean in Southport.
The wind is really honking! It's rough out there, with 12' waves with short periods raging off Cape Fear. We nose into the old Southport basin and drop our anchor (we're the only boat there). With free anchorage, we can stay indefinitely! No pressure! But, as Angie is not feeling up to exploring, we stay only one night.
The skipper and the kids go ashore and explore Southport. We are able to buy ICW charts down to St. Augustine, but do not have a chart for the stretch from Southport to Georgetown.
Angie is still feeling ill in the morning, and the weather is boisterous, and it's blowing from the south, so the next morning we decide to go down the ICW rather than head down on the "outside." The trip is exciting in that there's considerable shoaling at Lockwood Folly Inlet. We manage to touch down (on a rising tide) at one of the inlet channels, and must construct a remote depth sounder to find deeper water. Our "remote depth sounder" is a casting rod with a weight and a bobber set at 6.5 feet (our draft). A passing powerboat wake gets us off, and we make the rest of the trip to Barefoot landing, including the dreaded "Rock Pile," with no further excitement, except for seeing a bobcat swimming across the waterway!
Barefoot Landing is a shopping mall with free 48 hour dockage. As we pull in, we check the tide tables and depth, and figure we'll have about 6 inches under our keel at low tide. We go ashore and eat at the Boarshead Restaurant, which serves microbrewed beer. Angie's feeling well and we visit a few shops, too.
Any thoughts of staying another day at Barefoot Landing are dispelled around 9pm, when one of the other boaters knocks on our hull to alert us to the fact that we're heeling. We expected to perhaps touch at dead low tide, around midnight, but not so early in the evening. We have apparently miscalculated the depth of the low tide, and are settling onto the rock bottom. To keep Canto from listing too much, we rig the spinnaker halyard to a metal piling on shore, then we go back to bed. Rather than have 6 inches under our keel at low tide, we have one foot of boat between our waterline and the water. This makes for an uneasy night and it also makes it hard to get on and off the boat, so we know we must leave at high tide (early in the morning).
The morning is quite foggy, but we must cast off, so we go. Our radar gives us a good picture, and visibility is about one-half mile, so we are able to proceed slowly. The fog soon lifts, and we're back to full speed! The next stop: Georgetown!
Georgetown is an interesting stop. Georgetown is named after George, Prince of Wales -- later King George III. It was founded by British colonists moving here from Charleston, and is the third oldest city in South Carolina. The colonists exported indigo to make a blue dye popular in Europe, and the port had "favored status" with the British. This favoritism ended with the Revolutionary War, although the export of indigo continued.
Rice became the new fuel of the economy, the harvest of which depended heavily on slave labor. Rice crops were suited to the predominantly marshy lands surrounding Georgetown, and the profits gave rise to a genteel aristocracy that lasted until the Civil War, which put an end to slave labor.
With the collapse of this southern way of life, Georgetown's economy also collapsed, accelerated by a series of devastating hurricanes. The economic rebirth of the city began in 1936, when International Paper built a paper mill here, augmenting the lumber yard already in existence. Later, the lumber yard was replaced by a steel mill, which is currently still in operation.
The anchorage is somewhat full, but we squeeze in between two other boats. Our definition of "close anchoring" has drastically changed since we left in June. Georgetown has a paper mill and a steel mill, both plainly visible from the anchorage, which run 24/7. The holding ground is good, but you wouldn't want to be here in a northerly breeze due to the factories - the noise and dust would drive you away.
Ashore, there are some interesting places to go, but there wasn't enough there to keep us. We decide to eat at the "Big Tuna," which seems to be primarily a bar. The thing it has going for it is that it's open. They don't seem to be very used to people coming for dinner, though, and we have a very interesting dining experience.
On our way back to Canto later that evening, we stop by Vakasha a 43' catamaran from South Africa. We first met them in [ahem] Barefoot Landing when they [ahem ahem] pounded on our hull to inform us we were heeling. They are very friendly and invite us aboard. Ken has built his boat from scratch, using a designer popular in South Africa. After sailing off Madagascar and fearing for his life, he cut the bows off, lengthened them, and flared them so that they wouldn't plunge into the seas. According to Ken, it's pretty common for the South African catamarans to have too fine an entry on the bows and pound heavily in big seas, making for a dangerously uncomfortable ride. Vakasha is an attractive boat and, obviously, very seaworthy, but Ken and Thora are selling her through The Catamaran Company. We were astonished: why? After 15 years of sailing, Ken and Thora want to move back into a house, with a nice garden, on solid land.
From Georgetown, we head back into The Ditch and aim to anchor off the ICW in a creek just about 15 miles shy of Charleston. We pull into a beautiful anchorage, Awendon Creek: deep water, lots of nature, and a lovely sunset. The current here is swift, but there's plenty of swing room and it presents no problem. A brisk wind over the marshes keeps the bugs away and our wind generator generating. This is the best we've felt since turning around in the Gulfstream. At night, one can see the distant Charleston lighthouse over the marshes.
The next day, we pull our anchor and head for Charleston. On this stretch, we note a marked increase in the number of naturally-appearing palm trees. This is a good sign - we must be nearing the tropics! As we near the harbor, the wind picks up a bit and we raise our sails. We must keep the engine running in the ICW, but, once in the large harbor, we can shut it down and just sail on to Charleston. The wind is light, but we are not in a hurry, and we waft along. It's the first time since Beaufort that we've been able to do any sailing, and it feels great! It also affords us time to give a history lesson about the Civil War for there, in plain view, is Fort Sumter, where the first shots of the Civil War were fired.
Charleston's waterfront is quite picturesque. The anchorage, however, is not cruiser friendly. It is filled with moorings, has poor holding (at least where we decided to drop the hook, and the current runs swiftly - maybe 2 knots or more. This makes anchoring among the moorings a touchy business. It also makes rowing ashore a real workout.
The Charleston City Marina has a dinghy dock one may use free of charge. This dinghy dock dries out (uucky mud!) at very low tides, and is rather unprotected against theft. We use our dinghy lock and have no trouble with theft. We did come back once at mid-day to find the water yards away from the dinghies. At that time, we were glad for our lightweight Walker Bay (we love that dinghy!) as we were able to portage it along the marina docks to deeper water. On one of our trips back from shore, a family of four comes in on an inflatable and hails us. They look very familiar, and it turns out that we last met them in Baltimore! They are the crew of the French boat, Concerto, and have just come in and anchored. They ask us if we know where the dinghy docks are, and we give them directions.
We have been looking forward to the Charleston Aquarium for days, but, just as we are about to buy tickets, we are advised by a local shopkeeper that it's kind of humble for the high admission price. Having been to the wonderful Baltimore Aquarium, we decide instead to watch an IMAX movie of Shackleton's Antarctic Adventure. The film, created by WGBH Boston, is very well done and we figure that our sailing has all been sunshine and roses in comparison.
The next day, we pick up our anchor (which has dragged overnight in the wind and current), reset it and, after satisfying ourselves that it won't drag, we set a second anchor downstream. NOW we should hold. We head back into town for some more fun. We have a full day sightseeing and shopping at the City Market, and have lunch at the nearby French restaurant, "the Mistral" -- alas, the lunch is overpriced and not all that good. We had picked the place because we had walked by the highly-recommended Town Grill and it didn't seem very auspicious. Sigh. The market is wonderful, though, and we have a pleasant time buying gifts for family and friends.
Sunday rolls around with us intending to head to shore for the morning mass at St. John the Baptist's. All through the night, our boat has been grinding on our anchor chain, and the morning light reveals why: Canto's keel has caught on the rode and is preventing her from swinging to the current. The strain on the rode is incredible, and we decide to try to pick up our second anchor so she can swing to the primary. Alas, the Danforth is holding for all it's worth, and the skipper almost sinks the dinghy trying to raise it. During this charade, the crew of Concerto, who are apparently impressed with us rowing everywhere in the swift current, stops by and tries their hand at breaking the anchor free. C'est impossible: even pulling together, we cannot budge this 35 pound Danforth anchor, but we do make plans to get together later for some wine. Francois notes that while Americans often use two anchors, the French practically never do (even in the U.S.). We finally winch Canto down the rode and use the engine to break the anchor free. After all this, the crew has a bit of a late departure for church, and the skipper rows like crazy to get to shore. A few yards out, a forgotten item is remembered, and the skipper must now row against the swift current to reach Canto again.
We get to shore too late to catch the bus, and must walk the distance to the church, which will make us late. As we cross a parking lot, the intrepid skipper spies a pickup truck which looks to be heading in the right direction. We tap on the window and explain our predicament; soon, we're riding in this big old pickup truck to church -- Kristina and Angie up front with the driver, and Luke and the Skipper in the truck bed. THIS is BIG fun!
St. John's is a beautiful church, with lovely stained glass windows, made in Germany, a lovely pipe organ, gothic columns and arches, the works. Just beautiful. And who should be presiding over the mass but the Bishop of the Charleston diocese!
After mass, we notice that the streets have been blocked off. Hmm. We have wandered onto the Charleston Christmas Parade route, due to begin in a few hours. How fortuitous! We walk over to Market Street again, and this time, we eat at the Town Grill, where we'll have full view of the parade. The food here is excellent - some of the best we've eaten on the ICW. If you visit Charleston and eat here, be sure to order something with the rotisserie chicken, like the salad (which has a LOT of chicken in it). It's succulent.
Back at Canto, barely in time for our wine date, we quickly pour some chips and dip and dig the wine out of the bilge, and our guests arrive. Francois, Clarice, Raphael (1) and Tomas (4) are very much like us. They have taken sabbaticals from their teaching careers to go cruising. They cruise on a Contest 31 (which incidently draws 6'3"), which has a very distinctive paint job.
Unfortunately, their visas are about to expire, and they must be out of the country before January 1, so we know that we won't be travelling with them long. They plan to head off to Cuba for the winter, then one long trip back to France in the Spring. Tomas has a birthday party planned for Wednesday, so we make plans to rendezvous in Fernandina Beach for this event.
Angie is doing well now, and hasn't been sick in days, so we decide to head offshore to Fernandina Beach, FL. However, the next day (Monday) is miserable-looking, so we say "see ya later" to the crew of Concerto and head instead to one of Charleston's marinas for groceries, laundry, email, water and fuel. It's an exhausting day, but we get it all done. The weather service calls for a "northeast swell not due to any wind" and winds 15 to 20 from the northwest, highest south. Sounds perfect! So, early on Tuesday morning, we slip out of Charleston Harbor on the ebb tide and, for the first time since Beaufort, into the Atlantic.
As we head out of the Charleston breakwater, we begin to hit a sloppy, steep, unruly 6-8' ocean swell. The wind is strong from the north, but the swell is more from the east. They are probably being kicked up by Olga, and, hitting the relatively shallow shelf waters, pile up. The effect is to roll is unmercifully. The wind, being dead astern, does little to steady us. In short, it's an uncomfortable ride. At least we have wind - about 20 knots of it. We fly, making an average of 8 knots (the sail repair tape does just fine). About three hours out of Charleston, we see two more sails heading out -- we are not alone.
The wind builds through the afternoon and evening to a solid 25 as we head south. There are now two distinct wave patterns - northeast and north. The north waves are steady and easy, but the northeast ones come in groups of three and roll us onto our ears. They are not breaking into the cockpit, but the motion is crazy, and Angie is sick once again. (It should be noted that Luke is sick only once, just before bed, and Kristina is in her bunk doing needlepoint.) We are a bit discouraged -- here we are, complaining about uncomfortable sea conditions on what should have been a milk run!
We blast along until nightfall, when the skipper decides to shorten sail some more to slow the boat to a mere 6 to 7 knots. This does make things more comfortable, and everyone hits the sack. The skipper finds that he can lay across the cockpit at the stern, occasionally checking his course by the angle of the bimini to the Milky Way and Orion's Belt.
The Monitor steers flawlessly, even in these sloppy conditions. Even when Canto was surfing down the swells at over 8 knots, the Monitor steered us faithfully dead before the wind. In fact, neither of us are able to hand-steer as good a course, and the electronic autopilot is nearly useless in the strong winds and big waves (it has to work too hard and often rounds up).
There is NOTHING out here except us, the stars, the sloppy waves, and -- infrequently -- the glint of a sailing light over the horizon at our stern; the skipper admits to occasionally nodding off for short periods. Whoever came out behind us is also southbound. The skipper suspects it may be Concerto and that the trip we find uncomfortable is, for them (after crossing the Atlantic and cruising the Caribbean, and eastern seaboard), probably a routine trip. The stars, however, are incredible.
At 0100 hours, the wind becomes light. The motion becomes its worst as now there is almost NO wind to steady our boat. At 0300, the wind has died so that we're only making 2 knots. We resort to starting the engine.There's just enough wind to blow the fumes into the cockpit, and we now count the hours until we reach the inlet. It begins to rain (we're passing through an almost stationary, weak trough of low pressure). Later in the morning, the sky clears and a clear bright moon lights our way. It's magnificent except for the diesel exhaust smell.
The morning brings fair skies, still light winds, still sloppy swells, and hungry children. We cook up a mess of grits and eat them all. Angie abstains from eating anything but Premium Crackers.
We have heard securites regarding the right whale, through whose nursing grounds we were now cruising. Only 200 right whales are thought to be in existence, and only 70 of those are breeding females. Calving season, which starts in December, is a sensitive time for the whales. Right whales swim slowly, and often stay at the surface, especially with calves. They are very susceptible to ship strikes, which is thought to be the leading cause of death for the whales. We are on keen lookouts for the whales, but unfortunately do not spot one. We do, however, see a large sea turtle swimming through the swells.
Finally, around 1600 hours, we reach Fernandina Inlet. A moderate wind has sprung up from the east, and the tide is ebbing. The current in the inlet can run upwards of 4 knots. We can either heave-to and wait for the next flood, which means entering an unfamiliar inlet (with partially submerged, poorly marked jetties) at night, or spend the night hove-to at sea and wait for the morning flood, or run for it. A shrimping captain in Wrightsville had told us that this inlet was a very good inlet to run in a variety of conditions. Armed with this certain knowledge, and with a now brisk breeze behind us, and with a strong desire to get Angie to flat water, we decide to run for it. With full genoa, we blast along at 7 to 8 knots through the water. However, we find that, between the jetties, we're only making about 2 to 3 knots over ground! On top of that, there are standing waves in the inlet of 6 feet or more, and they're breaking! Previous paddling experiences on Class III rapids, complete with holes, whitewater and whirlpools come to mind.
We have the engine running to help push us through, and notice it beginning to run hot intermittently. I go check the vacuum gauge we installed on the filter in New Bern, and it shows that the vacuum between the filter and the pump is building - the filter is starting to clog despite our tank cleaning - no doubt due to the milkshake effect the inlet is giving us. Good thing this is just a short run. The vacuum is not very strong, so the intermittent heating of the engine must be due to air sucking into the engine raw water cooling system in the rough seas.
After about an hour of white-knuckle motor-sailing, we're through it, and into the calm water and more moderate current of the harbor. The excitement hasn't ended yet, though, as we are treated to the sight of a nuclear submarine heading out to sea.
We consult the pilot after dropping the anchor, and find that the Fernandina Inlet is actually a pretty hazardous inlet to run when conditions are not right. Incidently, though there were shrimpers in the harbor and shrimpers outside shrimping, we didn't notice any shrimpers coming or going through the inlet. In retrospect, it was quite a rush running the inlet in those conditions, albeit one a prudent skipper would not seek out.
We anchor well away from the other boats, but a trawler skipper is standing on his bow watching us, his hands on his hips. After we finish anchoring, he yells at us that he is on [an excessive length of] rope anchor rode, and that when the current switches, he'll be on top of us. The man proceeds to lecture us on anchoring. The skipper of Canto figures we're amply far away, but to avoid an unpleasant confrontation, we amenably pick up the anchor and move a few feet farther away. The anchor nazi is still glaring at us, but we decide to ignore him and turn in for the night. It turns out we have plenty of room when the tide turns later that evening -- in Beaufort, there would have been seven boats in the same space.
We awaken early to find that Concerto, as well as a Swiss boat we encountered in Baltimore, are anchored nearby. It looks like the waving lights of the previous night had, in fact, been Concerto's, and that Raphael's birthday party is on! Francois, Clarice and the kids swing by in their dinghy on their way to shore, and we set a time. Clarice notes that, of all their cruising, those were the worst conditions they'd been in so far -- everybody was sick! Suddenly, we don't feel so sheepish anymore about how uncomfortable our passage was for us.
Daniel, a nearly-octogenarian singlehanding his steel sloop, N'Chaka from Switzerland, has broken his gooseneck on the passage, and is now in need of some fabrication. Canto's skipper offers to help -- Daniel is a stranger in a strange land, and doesn't speak English all that well (he speaks French and a dialect of German we simply cannot comprehend). We assure him that a busy shipping port such as Fernandina Beach (which has three factories visible from the harbor) is sure to have fabricators and welders around. A few quick calls on Canto's cell phone turns up what proves to be one of the best fabricators on the East Coast just a 30-minute dinghy ride away. We hop into Daniel's dinghy and head off. $50 and one-half day later procures a gooseneck better than the original!
Tomas' birthday party is a big success! We all head over to Concerto drink wine, and have a great time. During our first get together with Francois and his family, we asked if they drank wine (the crew of the French boat, Sillage, which we encountered in Cape May, did not drink any alcohol). Francois' reply: "But of course, we are French!" We told him of Sillage, to which he replied "it is not possible!" Daniel gives us a fine bottle of French wine in thanks for our assistance with his gooseneck - he's just amazed at how quickly this problem, which he figured would persist for many days, was resolved. Indeed, we are told by the crews of both boats that we are the first really friendly Americans they've met, and that we shatter the stereotype Europeans have of us. We are flattered. We've heard from others that the French are an unfriendly cruising lot, but so far, we've found this not to be true. What does seem to be true is that friendliness/unfriendliness crosses geographic, political and language boundaries. Francois informs us that tomorrow, they will push on to St. Augustine. We have made plans to leave the boat in Jacksonville for the holidays, so, with heavy hearts, we say our farewells. 
The next day, we linger in Fernandina Beach to make rental car arrangements, marina arrangements, and eat at the "Happy Tomato" restaurant. The Happy Tomato turns out to be excellent, and the day is beautiful, and all our spirits are high.
We head out early the next day for Jacksonville. It's not a long trip, but we must time it to catch a fair tide on the St. John's River, where currents run 2 knots or more. We aim to be at the place where the ICW crosses the St. John's at 1300, which should be just before the flood. We make it with time to spare, and wind up passing time with our sails up waiting for the tide to fill in behind us. It eventually does, and we scoot off towards Jacksonville.
We anchor behind Exchange Island, so named when it was dedicated for recreational use by the Jacksonville Exchange Club. Luke and the skipper go exploring, and discover a small, shallow inlet into the island. This widens out to a wide lagoon, and we land the dinghy and go exploring on foot. Exchange Island could have been the set for Gilligan's Island with all the palm trees, cacti, and nice little beachlets.
Aside from Exchange Island (where there are no structures), there's nowhere to land a dinghy, and we're eager to explore Jacksonville, so we pick up and move to the stadium park docks. Here, one can dock for up to 72 hours for free. There's no one around, and we expect we could have wintered here with nobody caring (except perhaps during football games). There is no water or electricity, and no good way to get to Jacksonville from here, but it's closer than Exchange Island and it's free.
The current is wicked, and this would make docking any sailboat a nightmare if one couldn't stem the current. However, the docks are deserted, and we slip easily into the dock by stemming the current. We use the docks to inflate our other dinghy (there's no rowing against this current, and Jacksonville Landing is about a mile away, so we need the outboard), mount the outboard, and we're off.
Jacksonville Landing is a pretty nice place, though expensive, but the shops are not too bad, and it's neat place to hang out. There's free dockage there, but only for day use, and you have to go through a 40' bridge to get there (Canto needs at least 60' - the bridge will raise, but ...). It's pretty neat, but we've seen it all in an afternoon. The public library does not allow email access. We get the church times and go home to Canto.
We head for JL again on Sunday, this time to go to church. We get there too late for anything except the Spanish mass, which we attend. After being immersed in French for awhile, it's really hard to even understand 10% of the Spanish mass. But there we are. Angie could easily pass as a Spaniard -- folks keep coming up to her and speaking in Spanish to her; alas, Angie studied German, not Spanish, manages to utter, "no hablas Espanol," which, the skipper later points out, means, "You don't speak any Spanish." It seems to convey her point well enough.
We wander around some more and do some shopping, then head back to Canto. The next day, we head back with the intention of hitting the other shore, checking out the museums, and enjoying some lunch. We leave our dinghy at the Riverside Marina (after asking), and wander around on the Riverwalk. We have lunch at the Riverside Brewery, right there at the marina. The microbrew beer is delicious and the food is great - well worth the money! By the time we are done with lunch, the Maritime Museum is unfortunately closed, but the Museum of Science and History (MOSH) is open. We go there, but as we had a late start, decide not to go inside since they will close in an hour. We decide to ride around on the Skyway, which is a monorail travelling across the St. John's to various points in Jacksonville. One can get on and ride it as long as one wishes for $.35. We get on and ride across the St. John's, then back again, and then the thing gets stuck. It's all automated, but the "icon" has disappeared from the computer (as we later learn from the technician). No one can get off or on. We sit and wait. Finally, the technician arrives and starts it up again and the doors open. We decide to stay on for another ride. Alas, the poor thing shuts down again, this time in the middle of the track, above the city. The kids think this is really fun! The skipper keeps thinking, "if the icon is gone, and the technician is manually driving, and the other cars know where this car is by the icon, what's keeping them from crashing into us?" We reach the next station (finally!) and the argument the skipper plans to present for disembarking is made moot by the technician's rather sudden insistence that everyone get off. We decide to call it a day, and head home.
We finally visit the Museum of Science and History, "the MOSH." The prices are reasonable, and it's a very nice museum. A great deal is dedicated to the understanding and preservation of marine mammals, noteably the right whale and the manatee. There is a splendid train exhibit as well, with trains of various scales running all over the large room. The planetarium show, which was included in the admission, was very bad, but the museum, overall, was worthwhile visiting.
Back at Canto, we all pretty much agree that we're ready to move on tomorrow. So, we turn in for the night. The next morning is very foggy, and the fog doesn't burn off until late. That's OK, though, because we need the tide to ebb before we can depart. Departing before that would be tricky, with the boat possibly being flung onto the concrete docks. Even if we did make it out of our slip, fighting the current for the 17 mile trip up the St. John's would be wasteful of time and fuel. We patiently wait, and use the time to school the children and stow our dinghies.
We are whisked down the St. John's on the ebbing tide, and get to our anchorage in good time. We anchor behind a set of three small islands, in a place which, on the chart, shows only blue and marshes. The cruising guide notes the place as an anchorage, so we proceed in. The water here is, surprisingly, over 20 feet deep, and we must strike a balance between letting out enough chain to keep from dragging across the hard bottom, but not so much as to drift into the weeds. We never do set the anchor completely, but with no big weather systems around, the weight of the anchor and chain alone will suffice to hold us.
On any cruising yacht, the most dangerous thing to have onboard is a schedule. For the holidays, we plan to drive to Huntsville, AL, to be with Family. We have to pick a date for Angie's first OB/GYN appointment, and, back in Fernandina Beach, we picked the 20th (the middle of next week) - that seemed like ample time. We have made plans to pick up a rental car the day after tomorrow (a Friday), early in the morning, to give us time to visit Sunny Hills, Pensacola, and Mobile before heading up to Huntsville, site of the doctor's appointment. The marina has only 6 feet of water at low tide, and we draw 6.5, so we must go in at better than half tide, and a rising tide would be best. The high tide at the marina is at around 10:00 am, so we must show up around 8am, 9am at the latest. The marina is only 2 miles away, so it should be easy. However, it does not inspire peaceful, easy feelings when the weather report talks of heavy fog in the morning, lasting until noon. We decide to make the go / no go decision tomorrow, and turn in for the night.
In the morning, the visibility has dropped to less than 1/8 mile. It would be more prudent to stay put, but then we'd miss the tide, not get to the rental car agency on Friday (closed on the weekend), yadda yadda yadda and ultimately not make next week's doctor's appointment. Thank goodness for radar and an autopilot (it's nearly impossible to steer a straight course with no visual references!).
As we pass the two other boats in the anchorage (which we couldn't even see until they were close), they look at us as though we're crazy. Maybe so!
Making judicious usage of securite calls, our fog horn, the radar and the autopilot, we slowly cruise the 2 miles to the marina. The radar picks up each of the markers, so we always know where we are, and we are soon at the marina. The marina folk are incredulous when we magically emerge from the fog, but we've made it, and can now relax and look forward to the holiday season! (Well, sort of, there's still bags to pack and laundry to do!).