I've grown up around boats. I skippered boats in the oil fields of Louisiana, crewed a company yacht and owned a 27' "pocket cruiser." I've had the good fortune to traverse the Caribbean on various bareboat charters over the last decade. Each time, while at the helm, I've been pummeled by the souls of earlier explorers…or more fittingly, pirates. Rolling along at the mercy of the sea…not the coastal sea but the deep, blue, formidable sea.. the islands in the distance look like individual mountains. From miles away you cannot detect a condo, a resort, a radio tower or a marina…they look the way I imagine they looked hundreds of years ago when explorers and pirates roamed. Even under power on a hoity-toity charter boat, this scene riles the daring spirit of a pirate that dwells not so deep within. It's a crazy game between ego and nature. I know nature will win, she's undefeated; but I'd feel oh-so lifeless if I didn't stand up to her…even if it's only to be brought to a trembling death…at least I lived. Blah blah blah…enough drippy prose. This is just a skip down the ICW and a leisurely hop over to the Bahamas, but now you know what I know…the sea calls me. 

This adventure remains a pipe-dream if not for the best of spouses and the most capable of offspring. My wife and eldest daughter agreed to carry the load while I meandered around the Bahamas. It was an easy sell, really. I told them my plan and they pretty much said, "see ya!" (The lone advantage of curmudgeonship.)

Buyer's remorse and a light to variable ass-whipping

I know a little about sailboats, very little compared to true sailors. Shopping for a boat, I had a dilemma: Spend more for a newer boat or spend close to the same for an older, yet more seaworthy boat. I chose the latter. I made an offer on a barely used Hunter 306 that sat in Little Washington, NC.  My low-ball offer was promptly accepted. Yikes! (not low enough)…still it was a good deal, even by boat purchasing standards. Then I stumbled upon a 1985 Island Packet 27 (30' really, if you count the pulpit) in Charleston, SC. I low-balled him and my offer was promptly accepted. Yikes! again. 

The analogy I use to compare these two boats is: One is a Kia with lots of bells and whistles…the other is an old Mercedes 300 diesel. They both needed updated electronics and a myriad of other things (batts, solar, refrigeration, chain, windlass, canvas, etc…) that would make them suitable for this journey. The Hunter was more money…the IP was the better boat (in the minds of most). I should've taken the Hunter. Yes, the IP needed much of the same upgrades, but it also needed repairs. 30 years of previous owner's tinkering can be a nightmare to untangle and even more so to remedy. With the Hunter I would have simply added components…with the IP I spent 2 months in the boatyard. A boat broker asked me if I'd ever had a "light to variable ass-whipping?" That day when the forecast calls for light to variable winds but you find yourself in 30 knot winds and 6' seas. In that instance, he said, you'll wish you were in the IP and not the Hunter. There's no doubt the boat I chose is more seaworthy, but I let that cloud my judgement because I have the luxury of waiting out the weather. Sailor's typically screw up when they're trying to adhere to a schedule…they push the weather window and find themselves in precarious, if not regrettable, situations. I have buyer's remorse, but this boat is growing on me.

Less than auspicious beginnings

After prep and packing and stowing and forgetting…I set out on October 31st 2015. I had been struggling to cure a leak in the fuel system for the week prior and I thought I had finally resolved the issue. I let the engine run for a couple of hours before departure and there were no signs of trouble. About 5 minutes from the dock (with family and neighbors still within ear-shot) the engine died and I had to scramble for tools and jump down into the engine room to bleed the air from the system and restart the engine…maybe 45 seconds before drifting into the neighbor's dock. WTF?!!

So I limped away south and decided to moor in the Wrightsville Beach harbor for the night. Not a bad plan as I was able to fuel up, pump out the holding tank, ice down and rendezvous with a friend. I tinkered with the engine some more and the next morning set out with zero engine related problems. As I reached Southport I decided I had seen enough of the Oak Island -> Sunset Beach section of the ICW…I elected to go "outside" for an ocean run to Little River inlet. I had to motor-sail because there wasn't much wind…but it was a beautiful day and the engine ran for 11 hours straight…no problem.  Pulled into the south end of Bird Island and cooked a bad-ass steak for Steve and myself. A good first full-day.

WTF?

The next morning starts out with promise and a sputter. Air in the fuel line again means I have to have (now readily accessible) tools and engine room open to bleed the line each time the engine stalls. This could occur after 2 hours or 20 minutes…depends on how the 20hp diesel feels, I guess. It's happened so often that I can now detect the slightest variation in the rhythm of the cylinders and can anticipate the impending failure….which ALWAYS occurs when a tug is oncoming or I'm going through a swing bridge. I stop at Barefoot landing and spend an hour re-tightening all of the fittings I spent the last week tightening. I limp on another 40 miles to Wachesaw and dock for the night…Steve is happy to make use of the amenities. 

Day 3 we get an early start, but it's a long rainy slog to McClellanville …we stop early (3pm) and anchor in a small cove for the night. Steve's not happy. 

Day 4 we're up at 5 and running by 6….The fuel system is now leaking like a sieve and shutting down every 20 minutes with regularity. I've learned to pre-bleed the system before approaching a bridge or harbor. I call Isle of Palms ahead of time and ask for diesel mechanic recommendations and a slip for the night. The mechanic shows up later that afternoon and we trade out the existing fuel/water separator for the one I should've purchased in the first place. (buyer's remorse) After taking a diesel bath every day for the last week or so, I've come to know my way around the engine…so much so that I have to take the lead when the mechanic starts his assessment. He's glad to leave and I'm glad to have him gone. We have a new part, let's hope the old one was the culprit.  Dinner with an old friend from Sullivan's island makes for a decent delay….I'll be off again tomorrow. 

Day 5  I'm second guessing a connection the mechanic made. My friend runs me to the hardware store and West Marine to get supplies. I change the line, have lunch and shove off…. Made it up the Stono River. It's spectacular at this particular sunset…as calm as a mill pond. We anchor for the night. I dinghy Steve over to a nearby shore for his wiz and dump. He's learning the routine.

Day 6 Early start with favoring current…Spot a Bald Eagle along the way…lots of dolphins along side us and this drives Steve nuts. I have to tie him down for fear he'll jump. I cruise past Beaufort and head for Hilton Head but run out of time and visibility as a fog bank rolls in and there's nothing I can do. I'm crossing a 50' deep river with shipping traffic (can't anchor)…I've got an hour of daylight left but that's been devoured by the fog. There is absolutely no way to navigate without the chart plotter…visibility is maybe 100 feet. I can drive with the chart plotter, no problem….but the plotter only tells me where I'm going, not who I'm about to run into. It's dark…it's foggy…and Steve needs to go. I anchor in the shallows but only long enough to take Steve ashore. Then proceed @ 2 knots into the abyss. I hear shipping chatter on the VHF which doesn't exactly thrill me….finally find a hole deep enough to moor. We drop the hook and it's 7pm. That makes for a 13 hour day.

Day 7 Still fogged in at 9 am. I've driven in fog before…when I was a crew-boat captain in Louisiana..but I had radar then and without it, I'm stuck. As a result, there's time to write. The days are long and slow (think driving a golf cart to California) but the scenery is to die for. The SC low-country is something to behold, and they say GA is going to surpass this. 

NO RAGRETS … Cheesy boat name from a cheesy movie, but it fits. It's easy to communicate on the VHF and I've gotten several compliments already. Other names in consideration were: "Bag of Hammers" (as in dumber than a bag of hammers), "Greta" (for my cool daughter), "Sloop Dog" (for Steve) and "Blamer" (for me). I had a previous sailboat named "Shoal Brother" which was aptly named for my seamanship and was later changed to "Hip Sails" which corresponded with my orthopedic sales job at the time. Katharine and I also had a power boat named "Kathron"…it served us well.

I've packed too much bread, bagels, lunch meat, etc… as I typically eat a bowl of cereal before shoving off and grab some crackers with cheese for lunch. Too early to tell what the dinner routine will be but the one steak I did cook made me wish I'd packed more. For all of the sitting I do all day long, I'm absolutely beat at the end of the day. The auto-pilot does the lion's share of the driving but I remain in constant look out for crab pots, traffic and heading. This bounding about the boat, adjusting lines and getting on and off the dinghy is a young man's game. I think I envisioned the 30-year-old version of myself making this trek, when  in fact, I'm now more suited for the cozy wheelhouse of a small trawler.