The Voyage of the Pequod

After several summers of power cruising the Chesapeake Bay, my husband Andy and I decided we'd like to try it under sail. We were talking about this at a party, when a bachelor friend asked, "Why don't you charter my new boat, a 32 foot sloop with a diesel auxiliary?"

In the tale that follows you will see why both the owner and boat's names remain anonymous. Henceforth I will refer to the owner as "The Guy" and the boat as the Pequod, with due apologies to Herman Melville, whose own Pequod deserved a much better fate.

A moment later, the deal was struck. What he failed to mention was that the boat was "new" to him. The venerable 32 foot sloop had seen many seasons on the water since being built in France a decade before.

One slight little problem was that the boat was docked in Lewes, Delaware, a 90 mile trip up the Delaware Bay and through the C&D Canal from where we wanted to be. "No problem," said Andy, "We'll just tack one day onto the trip to get to the Chesapeake." Didn't seem like much of a problem. We'll pack a week's supplies and the dog, drive to Lewes on Friday afternoon, spend the night on the boat and head up the bay the next day.

The Plan

So we carefully laid out our float plan for the week of June 26 through July 4. Saturday, up the Delaware Bay and river to the C&D Canal. Sunday, down the Elk River to the Chesapeake Bay and south to the Magothy river north of Annapolis. Monday, through the Knapps narrows into the Choptank River (scene of Mitchner's Chesapeake), and on to Oxford, MD. Tuesday, a day in Oxford. Wednesday, back through the Knapps Narrows and around to St. Michaels. Thursday, a day in St. Michaels. Friday, north up the Eastern Bay through the Kent Narrows to Rock Hall at the mouth of the Chester River. Saturday, back to the C&D Canal where we would turn over the boat to The Guy and be back in Wilmington for the 4th of July fireworks. A nice relaxing week on the Bay.

Friday/Saturday, June 26/27

A lad from Lewes was to bring us the boat keys by five o'clock on Friday. We piled our mountains of supplies on the dock and waited. And waited. We tried the cell phone. No dice. We tried calling The Guy. Nada. The Blue Ice was melting. The dog wasn't happy.

In desperation, we prized open the hatch cover with a screwdriver and starting loading. It was then the KeyKid, appeared out of nowhere. I handed him the heaviest duffel.

Inside, the Pequod was hotter than the proverbial pocket. We began airing and arranging. Scrubbing the cold locker, I sent a prayer to the Kitchen God that the shrimp hadn't spoiled and the mayonnaise hadn't turned while marooned dockside.

Andy at the Helm

Another slight problem that The Guy failed to mention was that the slip was so shallow that the boat could only be moved at high tide. Morning high tide was at 5:10 AM. I gave exit responsibilities to my husband, Andy. By 8:00 AM we were 12 miles from Lewes, headed northwest, under power from the Aux with a nice southeast breeze and heavy following seas coming directly into the bay from the Atlantic Ocean. I was above and hugging a mug of coffee.

"Sails?" inquired Andy.

No roller reefing. It would take both of us to sail; one to man the helm and one to hoist the sails. We were rigged and rolling in no time at all, while I made notes of topside housekeeping. In the dusk the night before, I hadn't noticed that all the boat's lines were delicate shades of gray-green. I wondered if they had ever been in contact with soap.

But, housekeeping below took precedence. In the head, I attacked the questionable personal habits of our erstwhile benefactor with enough cleaning products to make a professional cleaning service jealous. Whoops. I didn't take into account the small, unventilated space, the fumes of the disinfectants, and the boat's wallowing in six-foot following seas. Not to mention that we were now under sail headed downwind. The breeze across the deck was zero. In the cabin it was even less.

While I lay in the V-berth praying for death ... WHOMP! The deep keel smacking the bottom on the Joe Flogger Shoals as the boat dipped into the hollow of each wave. The pitter-patter of size 12 feet on the deck told me that Andy was doing his best to get the jib down and get back under power. I rolled to one side as the sails came hurtling through the hatch cover.

In the middle of the 10 mile wide bay, the chart clearly shows the depth of Joe Flogger Shoal at two feet just west of bouy 29. Less than 100 yards either side of this ledge the water is over 25 feet deep. Andy couldn't have hit this shallow ledge if he tried to.

"Charts!" Andy yelled. I groaned. Who needs charts when they're going to die? But, I struggled to the chart table and managed to pass up the chart book. "Damn! We're only 100 yards out of the shipping channel." WHOMP!

"Come above," Andy commanded. Yeah, right. My knees were Jell-O and I was casting eyes about for a container for the coffee on its inevitable return journey.

By early evening, we were into the C&D Canal with a freshening cross-breeze - a good dinner and a good night's sleep just ahead. Not quite. The aux cut out. Damn, we'd forgotten The Guy had told us the fuel gauge didn't work. Could we be out of gas?

Andy tinkered and I prayed, as the rip-rap lining the banks of the narrow canal came ever closer. Finally the engine started. I might have been really worried if certain Power Squadron types hadn't slowed down, ready to throw a line if we needed it.

As the sun was setting, we docked at Shaeffer's Canal House Marina halfway through the canal. The dockmaster took one look at the Pequod and suggested a slip way in the back of the marina. We showered, we dined, we reggaed. Then, under the marina's lights, we set to scrubbing decks and lines. We would not be embarrassed when we hailed into Gibson Island the next evening to be collected by the Magothy River brother-in-law whose boats always sparkle like freshly cleaned teeth.

Sunday, June 28

Pam rigs the sails

It was a day of fair sailing as we exited the western end of the C&D Canal and headed down the bay. We dropped anchor behind Dobbins Island in the early afternoon and announced our arrival via cell phone to the in-laws ashore.

After an evening with family, eating, drinking, and playing with water toys on their small inlet, we returned to the Pequod to find the Coast Guard in close attendance. Anchor lights? Oh, anchor lights. We didn't think we'd be gone that long. Thank you for your advice, we'll turn them on for the rest of the night. An uneventful day of sailing slipped into a pleasant sleep with the wavelets lapping at the hull and the halyards gently slapping the mast with the bright white anchor light gleaming from the top.

Monday, June 29

Next morning, no need to turn off the anchor light, the battery was dead. No problem. Switch to the other one. Dead.

Since The Guy didn't know there was a second battery, perhaps he wasn't to blame for failing to keep it charged. Naturally the radio was dead too, so back to the cell phone. Maybe - and for many monies - we'd be rescued by noon. So much for the ad in the cruising guide touting "Fast Response Towboats ". But salvation arrived in the form of the Annapolis Sailing School workboat. They gave us a jump-start and we were off to Oxford. The Bay was like glass. No sailing today, but the aux had us chugging along at a lively six knots. Time to get out the dodger and the awning. Ah, the smell of mildew in the morning. Stored too long in a garage, maybe? And the plastic windows? Opaque from age. But careful surgery with a kitchen knife not only made them see-through, but breeze-through as well.

I continued with my below-deck housekeeping tasks and found … what's this? An auto-helm? Quick cell-call to The Guy. "Do you know you have an auto-helm?" We were eager to find out how to rig it.

"No. What's that?"

"Never mind." Since The Guy didn't know he had the contraption, he may possibly be forgiven for not having the instructions. Andy's good with things mechanical. Soon we were making way with hands free for essentials like elevenses and half-naps.

It was hot on the Bay, hot in Oxford, hot on the boat. Maggie, the Corgi, for the first time in her short-legged life, disobeyed orders. She jumped ship and came splashing into the marina pool with us. Nobody seemed to mind, particularly not the Big Oil Man from Texas, with his 78-foot charter sloop whose complement included a captain, an assistant (Tennille?), the owner's personal Episcopal priest, and an endless supply of pina coladas for everyone but the dog. With each drink the crowd grew merrier. With each drink the priest grew priestlier. As we left, he was offering to perform marriages.

It was still hot long after the Father and sun had gone down for the night. So we put the mattress on deck and slept under the stars, lulled to sleep, not by the lapping of the wavelets and slapping of the halyards, but by the gentle hum of the big boat's air conditioner. We were awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of silence. Followed by footsteps on the dock and the kind of cursing only a sailor can utter. It was the captain. The ubiquitous Chesapeake sea nettles (jelly-fish) had clogged the big boat's air conditioner water intakes and the system had shorted out the power supply. "Nice on deck," I muttered, and soon the captain and "Tennille" were joined by the Big Oil Man and the priest. We all slept under the stars after another round of coladas.

Tuesday, June 30

A fair day for a sail

We awoke shortly after dawn to the "whop, whop" sound of a helicopter landing near by. Seems the Big Oil Man had hired the thing to fly him to the cool comfort of an Annapolis hotel until the captain got the "damn thing fixed!" Preacher in tow, the Big Oil Man took to the skies while we cast off for a wonderful day under sail on the Choptank River. Passing by fleets of children in their regattas, we hoisted the sails, set the auto helm and ...

When we got back to the marina, we found that the big boat had left for Annapolis for repairs to the electrical system. The marina manager had left a note for us to come to the office. There we found a parting gift from the captain and "Tennille", a large pitcher of pina coladas safely tucked in the office refrigerator. We toasted Big Oil, the clergy, and most especially, charter captains and their crew.

Wednesday, July 1

Diver Down

Before we departed Oxford, every line was scrubbed, every sail bleached, dried, and properly packed. The boat sparkled, a red hot chili pepper windsock flew from the cross-stay, and the dog was togged out in a brand-new bandana. Contrary to our better judgment, we'd decided not to replace the funky lines. This was a mistake. Just as I was about to hook the port aft line, it snapped. And promptly fouled the prop. It's difficult, but not impossible, to find a diver in Oxford on the 4th of July week. My paring knife came in handy for him to carve the line off the prop, a local chandler was happy to sell us a new set of lines, and we learned that wet suits have pockets that can be stuffed with $100 bills.

By this time, the dog was bored with all the waiting and escaped to play with new boatyard friends. I went after her in hot pursuit. A half-hour later, with the four-legged crew member finally on duty, we sailed back through the Knapp's Narrows and on to St. Michaels.

She was a yar ship as we pulled into the marina of the St. Michaels Inn, and the harbormaster suggested a slip just aft of the 80 foot CeCeCe on "showboat row". We were met at the dock by friends from our home town who'd recognized Andy's voice on the Harbor Master's radio. They were just a few slips over. Sure, we'd join them for drinks, just as soon as we'd hosed down the decks. Soap on wood docks is slippery. Docks planked length-wise rather than cross-wise are a hazard.

Down I went!

Bloody bandage around my knee, drinks accomplished, we reported to a harborside restaurant for dinner. A local physician and a local crabber both examined my wound and, with sage head-shakes, agreed that it would heal in six to eight weeks. "Load it up with Neosporin," said the doc. "Salt water," said the crabber, a man of few words. "Have another drink," said the bartender. The bartender won.

Thursday, July 2

We toasted the Pequod. We toated The Guy. We toasted the Bay. By the end of the evening, being thoroughly toasted, we weaved our way through the streets of St. Michaels toward our boat docked at the St. Michaels Inn. Fortunately we were spared the long walk by a member of the local constabulary who suggested we ride with him to our appointed destination. We graciously accepted his kind invitation. Like we had a choice.

Friday, July 3

Too early the next morning, the cell phone rang. "See you this evening," said The Guy. Tonight? It's Friday. We agreed to return the boat on Saturday. However ... The Guy's girlfriend was upset because we were having fun on her boat and she wanted it back. Andy checked the charts, muttered something about full throttle all day and we agreed to meet them that evening at the head of the Bay. The girlfriend should have the kind of fun we'd been having.

Heading Home

We headed out of St. Michaels and up the Eastern Bay. The dog was on the bow with her ears blown back by the breeze and we were enjoying the morning, even if our cruise was being cut short by a day and a bitch (not the dog). Enter the drawbridge at the Kent Narrows (since replaced by a high bridge). Busy 4th of July weekend. Friday. Long wait for the bridge to open. We were headed north, and a strong current was headed south. It was a this particular moment that the aux made a unilateral decision to run at less than 1/10 power. The bridge opened.

Andy had the throttle pushed all the way forward as we limped under the bridge and towards a marina barely making headway against the strong current that rips through the narrows. The aux died just as the woman tending the gas pumps, tossed us a line. Two seconds earlier? The current would have swept us into the now closed drawbridge. The Official Mechanic offered a "tsk-tsk" and directed a workboat to tow us to a slip. Maybe he could get to it on Tuesday. Wednesday, more likely.

We cranked the phone. The Pequod could stay in Graysonville, Maryland until the end of eternity so far as we were concerned. We wanted out of there. But nobody was answering phones at home; from the boat owner to in-laws, friends and children with drivers' licenses.

The temperature was topping 100 and both fans were working full speed, when Andy decided to blow out the fuel lines by mouth. A little piece of blue plastic flew out, souvenir of a bad repair in the past. Soon, Andy had the engine started and we headed out. The Harbor Master refused to charge us for the brief time we were in the marina. Maybe because I'd spent so much money while sitting in the shade of the bar.

I suppose it was inevitable. After a week of virtually cloudless skies, we heard the sound of thunder from the west. Checking the charts for the nearest refuge, we tucked into Great Oak Landing only minutes before the majesty of nature reminded us just how small boats are on the vast waters of the Bay. Everything battened down, we marched through the storm to the marina's restaurant. Other than the fact the table was in constant motion - my first experience with land vertigo - and Andy broke a tooth on the salad, we were snug, safe and happy. We even forgot the dog snoozing under our table, until she began to snore.

Saturday, July 4

More cell phone action. We'd make an early start, meet The Guy and The Girlfriend at the C&D Canal at noon. But that morning, while we were fighting a headwind, weaving our way amongst merchant vessels, the aux cut out. Again. No way could we navigate the narrow Elk River and C&D Canal without power.

One final sail

We called The Guy, hoisted sail and headed downwind for a marina on the wide Bohemia River. Rounding the point toward the marina we now had to sail upwind and try for an under-sail docking. I'd seen Andy do this many times in our 17 footer, usually to applause from knowledgable onlookers. Could he pull it off in the Pequod?. The cell phone rings. It's The Guy waiting at the marina asking "Why do you keep sailing AWAY?"

"It's called tacking. You see, in order to make way into the wind ..."

The though suddenly occurred that The Guy had never had his boat under sail. In the end, however, the tacking came to naught. We tossed a line to a 22' powerboat and were towed in. The ignominy all sailors dread.

The temperature crawling toward 103, but the atmosphere on the dock was chilly. Few words were spoken as we tossed duffels out of the cockpit. My comments about missing boom vangs and the usefulness of working topping lifts were met with blank stares.

The Girlfriend spoke little, other than, "You're not leaving the charts?" Nope. We spent $78 on them and you can find the Joe Flogger shoals on your own, sweetheart. And I'm not leaving the windsock on the cross-stay, either.

Perhaps in gratitude for the 27 pages of ship's log and countless suggestions on how to get the boat somewhat close to yar, or perhaps only because he misplaced it, The Guy didn't cash our charter check. For this much, we can be grateful. The new dock lines, a new wind scoop, and countless other assorted aggravations far outran the "bargain" price.

My knee healed in seven weeks, leaving an interesting scar that's good for conversation. We've not spoken to The Guy and Girlfriend since, except for chance meetings in the supermarket, and we were not invited to their wedding. I do hope they spent their honeymoon on the Pequod. And that the shrimp I left behind in 103 degree weather were still there.